HER  BOSTON 
EXPERIENCES 


MARGARET  ALLSTON 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


Bn!.:0ht  at 

ilRTRAND   SMITH 

140  Pacific  Ave. 

LONG  BEACH, 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 


HIS    AMUSED    EXPRESSION    LENT    ME    THE    COURAGE 

OF    INDIGNATION." 

(See  pag 


HER   BOSTON 
EXPERIENCES 

A  Picture  of  Modern  Boston  Society 
and  People 


By 

MARGARET   ALLSTON 


Illustrated  by 
FRANK  O.   SMALL 


BOSTON 

L.  C.  PAGE  &  COMPANY  (INCORPORATED) 

MDCCCC 


LIBRARY 
JJJNiVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


Copyright, 
BY  THE  CURTIS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


Copyright,  iqoo 
BY  THE  CURTIS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

Copyright,  1900 
BY  L.  C.  PAGE  AND  COMPANY 

^INCORPORATED) 
All  Rights  Reserved 


Colonial  $reg* 

Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  C.  H.  Simonds  &  Co. 
i,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 

"HIS    AMUSED    EXPRESSION   LENT    ME    THE 

COURAGE  OF  INDIGNATION"       Frontispiece 
CHARLES  RIVER  EMBANKMENT  FROM  HAR- 
VARD BRIDGE 20 

THE  SYMPHONY  REHEARSAL  ...  34 
THE  BOSTON  PUBLIC  LIBRARY  .  .  44 
TREMONT  STREET  MALL  IN  WINTER  .  70 

"A    FAIRYLAND    OF    LIGHT    FLAKY    SNOW  "         78 

A  STORMY    DAY  FOR   CHRISTMAS   SHOP- 
PERS    .        ....        .        .        -83 

"  «  SEE  THE  BLUE  LIGHTS  IN  HER  HAIR  '  ".  92 
TRINITY  CHURCH  .  .  .  .  .  101 

"HE   TOOK    US    TO    OUR   CARRIAGE"  .  .127 

KING'S  CHAPEL  .        .        .        .v  .  .     131 

OLD  GRANARY  BURYING-GROUND  .  .137 

BOSTON  ART  MUSEUM       .        .  .  .152 

CHRIST  CHURCH         .        .        .  .  .     159 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

PAGE 

"I  ...  DROPPED  THE  LILIES  INTO  ONE 

OF  HIS  HANDS"  .  .  .  .  .165 

STATUE  OF  WASHINGTON  AT  THE  EN- 
TRANCE TO  THE  PUBLIC  GARDEN  .  166 

THE  PROCESSION  AT  THE  ARTISTS'  FES- 
TIVAL   193 

COMMONWEALTH  AVENUE  FROM  THE  PUB- 
LIC GARDEN 199 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 


CHAPTER    I 

DURING  my  first  week  in  Boston  I 
received  the  impression  that  I  had 
found  my  way  into  a  mammoth  woman's 
club  where  the  principal  idea  was  to  doubt 
and  weigh  every  proposition,  then  disprove 
it  if  possible.  I  was  oppressed  with  the 
feeling  that  I  alone  was  always  found  want- 
ing, until  I  discovered  how  general  is  the 
individual  failure,  how  deficient  every  new- 
comer appears  in  the  local  eye.  Being 
afforded  shortly  the  company  misery  loves 
from  among  other  visitors  to  the  city,  I 
plucked  up  my  spirit  and  faced  the  club 
eye  with  all  the  force  of  my  Scotch-Eng- 
lish ancestry.  In  consequence,  I  discovered 
ii 


12         HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

how  near  being  a  bully  Boston  is ;  that  if 
a  little  boy  can  fight  back  the  big  boy 
backs  down.  In  truth,  Boston  had  not 
meant  to  fight  at  all,  but  was  "merely  in- 
vestigating my  esoteric  being  for  purposes 
of  mutual  improvement." 

This  attitude  is  philanthropic  and  ethical 
at  the  root,  but  its  flower  is  patterned  after 
the  edelweiss,  or  some  other  materialised 
form  of  frozen  virtue  utterly  cold  and  sug- 
gestive of  a  frosted  window-pane  through 
which  one  can  see  neither  daylight  nor 
sunshine.  But  on  closer  acquaintance  I 
found,  generally  speaking,  that  when  the 
sun  melted  the  frost  off  of  the  Boston  ex- 
terior a  right  warm  heart  beat  far  down 
underneath,  and,  although  its  beats  were 
not  rapid  nor  enthusiastic,  they  were  regu- 
lar and  constant,  never  swerving  from  an 
allegiance  once  taken. 

I  was  born  in  New  York  City,  but  raised 
in  the  West,  where  my  father  went  for 
business  purposes  during  my  infancy,  he 
himself  having  been  introduced  into  this 
world  in  Boston.  My  brothers  grew  up 
typical  Westerners,  filled  with  contempt 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES         13 

for  any  other  section  of  the  country,  —  a 
spirit  erroneously  imputed  exclusively  to 
Boston  and  Philadelphia,  but  in  truth  one 
that  prevails  wherever  men  are  successful 
and  happy.  Every  bit  of  ground  is  to  the 
man  what  he  makes  it.  An  outsider  can 
find  his  jest  in  sectional  patriotism  and  still 
respect  it. 

The  difference  between  the  Boston  spirit 
and  that  of  other  localities  is  that  a  Bos- 
tonian  feels  an  exclusive  pride  intimating 
satisfaction,  minus  invitation,  while  the 
Westerner  blows  his  trumpet  calling  every- 
body else  to  have  a  finger  in  the  best  pie 
ever  made,  thus  revealing  the  touch  of 
metropolitan  provincialism  in  one  and  the 
remnant  of  pioneer  spirit  in  the  other. 

And  so  I  went  to  Boston  confirmed  in 
Henry  Ward  Beecher's  creed,  "  New  Eng- 
land is  a  good  place  in  which  to  be  born, 
but  the  West  is  the  place  in  which  to  grow," 
and  I  observed  at  once  the  reason  for  the 
sage's  truism.  Bostonians  have  no  desire 
to  sprout.  As  for  me,  I  am  by  nature  a 
sprouter,  born  with  an  interrogation  point 
behind  me. 


14         HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

I  was  twenty-two  years  old  when  I  first 
went  to  Boston,  to  visit  the  family  of  my 
father's  eldest  brother,  Mr.  John  Allston, 
who  at  an  early  age  settled  into  business 
prosperity  in  Boston.  His  wife,  once  Miss 
Brasilia  Whetmore,  was  always,  as  now, 
my  father  tells  me,  undoubtedly  a  sprig  of 
the  Mayflower,  whose  opinion  of  anything 
lying  outside  of  Boston,  even  as  far  as  the 
suburbs,  was  coldly  critical  to  the  extent 
of  open  hostility. 

Were  it  possible  for  one  to  imagine  Aunt 
Drusilla's  refined  nasal  feature  taking  so 
vulgar  a  tilt,  one  might  insinuate  that  she 
and  a  few  other  Bostonians  turn  up  their 
noses  at  any  contemporary  not  born  in 
Summer  Street,  reared  on  Beacon  Hill,  and 
married  into  the  water  side  of  Beacon 
Street.  The  tide  of  propriety  and  pros- 
perity moved  along  that  channel,  hence 
this  egotistical  conclusion  reached  easily  by 
any  proper  Bostonian  fed  upon  Saturday 
beans  and  the  Boston  Evening  Transcript, 
the  journal  which  directs  the  Boston  minds 
and  morals. 

Uncle  John  and  Aunt  Drusilla  had  two 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES         15 

daughters,  one  older  than  I,  one  a  year 
younger.  Dorothy,  the  elder  and  least 
proper,  had  been  married  a  few  years  when 
I  made  that  visit,  and  Elizabeth,  the 
younger,  was  only  just  out  of  college,  there- 
fore in  her  first  season  ;  while  I,  but  a  year 
her  senior,  had  been  a  "worldling  "  for  five 
years.  I  say  worldling  rather  than  society 
girl,  because  I  failed  to  take  a  degree  in 
society.  I  loved  few  things  better  than  the 
world,  but  my  affections  bounded  it  on  all 
sides,  not  on  the  one  alone  of  social  posi- 
tion and  remote  ancestry  connected  with 
tea  and  Pilgrims,  which  were  an  old  story 
to  me  soon  after  the  date  of  my  cradle. 
Without  change  of  theme  and  scene  I  grew 
restless.  Accordingly,  my  wise  parents 
gave  me  what  I  call  a  liberal  education  in 
contradistinction  to  a  college  education, 
with  which  statement  I  declare  myself  a 
Philistine  at  the  start,  for  I  chose  travel 
instead  of  school-books. 

My  cousins  I  found  as  different  from 
each  other  as  I  was  from  them.  Dorothy, 
upon  her  marriage  to  a  Bostonian,  proper 
in  family  but  almost  improper  according 


1 6         HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

to  Aunt  Drusilla  and  other  ladies  of  the 
ancient  regime,  owing  to  certain  liberal 
propensities  noticeable  in  the  latter-day 
Bostonian,  fell  in  with  Mr.  Granger's  late 
hours,  the  reading  of  New  York  papers, 
intimacies  among  people  who  professed  the 
arts,  and  a  tendency  to  "  run  across  to  the 
other  side  "  every  year,  with  ease  and  no 
hesitancy.  This  form  of  backsliding  irri- 
tated Aunt  Drusilla,  who  consequently  took 
the  more  pride  in  Elizabeth,  a  girl  after  her 
own  heart,  of  studious  habits,  broad,  phil- 
anthropic views  of  life,  perfectly  settled 
ideas  about  Platonic  friendship  and  other 
relations  with  the  opposite  sex,  and  smdl 
sympathy  with  the  restless,  inconsequent 
habits  of  the  Grangers,  who  were  content 
to  live  on  Commonwealth  Avenue,  instead 
of  on  Beacon  Street. 

The  Grangers  were  thoroughly  good- 
natured  with  Aunt  Drusilla  ;  it  was  safe  to 
be  so,  because  her  belligerence  stopped  at 
the  end  of  her  tongue.  When  I  arrived 
in  Boston,  late  one  October  day,  my  rela- 
tives had  just  come  up  from  Beverly  Farms, 
where  they  formed  a  prominent  part  of  the 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES          17 

Back  Bay  colony  settled  along  the  North 
Shore  each  summer.  Aunt  Drusilla  told 
me  at  once  that  Dorothy  and  Frederic  sent 
word  for  me  to  go  to  them  at  Lenox  for  a 
week  before  settling  down  in  town.  "  You 
know,"  added  my  aunt,  looking  an  almost 
insinuating  defiance  over  her  spectacles  and 
from  under  the  small  white  cap  she  wore  in 
harmony  with  her  plain  black  silk  gown, 
whose  style  and  cut  were  as  inevitable  as 
Queen  Victoria's  bonnet,  "you  know,  Mar- 
garet, or  you  will  soon  know,  that  my  eldest 
daughter  and  her  husband  belong  to  the 
younger  set,  with  whose  indiscretions  and 
light  purposeless  lives  I  have  no  sympathy. 
One  of  Dorothy's  friends  told  me  not  long 
ago  that  she  held  certain  infamous  modern 
novels  alongside  the  Bible  in  her  estimation 
of  moral  purpose.  Any  woman  who  could 
find  a  grain  of  good  in  an  artist's  model,  or 
congeniality  with  Bohemian  tastes,  is  not 
the  woman  for  my  daughters  to  associate 
with.  I  never  hesitate  to  tell  Dorothy  how 
I  feel  about  these  matters,  but  with  small 
effect,  I  fear." 

Aunt  Drusilla  looked  over  at  Elizabeth 


1 8         HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

with  a  sigh.  At  the  moment  Elizabeth 
was  reading  a  note.  Presently  she  said : 
"Mother,  Warren  Hartwell  writes  to  an- 
nounce his  return  some  time  after  Thanks- 
giving." 

Aunt  Drusilla  looked  unusually  well 
pleased  for  her,  I  thought.  "  This  is  inter- 
esting intelligence,  Elizabeth,"  she  replied, 
and  turning  to  me,  continued  :  "  This  gen- 
tleman of  whom  we  speak,  Margaret,  is  a 
very  old  friend  of  our  family.  He  and  my 
daughters  were  playmates  together,  even 
though  he  is  much  their  senior ;  quite  as 
his  mother  was  my  playmate  on  Summer 
Street,  when  our  parents  lived  side  by  side. 
He  went  to  Europe  last  spring  with  Doro- 
thy, Frederic,  and  Elizabeth,  but  did  not 
return  with  them  in  September.  Dorothy 
never  returns  to  town  until  Thanksgiving. 
The  young  people  of  this  generation  have 
little  or  no  appreciation  of  home  life." 

I  entirely  agreed  with  this  last  senti- 
ment, although  perhaps  not  in  the  spirit 
emphasised  by  my  aunt.  The  gifts  of  the 
gods  seemed  to  me  wasted  upon  a  blunted 
appreciation.  When,  late  in  October,  one 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES        19 

walks  about  that  part  of  Boston  known  as 
the  Back  Bay,  the  part  given  over  to  the 
social  and  moneyed  elect,  one  must  ques- 
tion the  pride  of  Bostonians  in  their  homes 
covered  with  masses  of  burnished  crimson 
ivy  unrivalled  even  by  that  celebrated  as 
Nature's  embellishment  of  English  homes 
and  ruins.  If  the  owners  felt  the  clear 
gold  of  the  autumn  air  as  I  do  they  would 
not  leave  their  homes  boarded  up  until 
Christmas  time  and  so  know  Boston  only 
in  its  ugliest  moods,  merely  to  follow  the 
dictates  of  Mrs.  Grundy,  whose  guidance 
is  seldom  in  sympathy  with  Nature's 
laws. 

Boston  is  essentially  the  autumn  city  of 
the  world.  The  air  is  full  of  sea ;  the  sky 
is  radiant  with  sunlight  and  deep  blue  or 
white  floating  islands ;  restful  vigour  per- 
meates the  atmosphere.  One  can  scarcely 
help  living  to  one's  utmost  possibilities  at 
that  time  of  year  in  this  most  attractive  of 
cities.  Go  and  stand  on  Harvard  Bridge, 
looking  off  toward  Boston,  half  an  hour 
before  sunset.  See  the  glorious  sky  echoed 
in  colours  in  the  waters  of  the  Charles 


20        HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

River.  The  sun,  still  peeping  over  Corey 
Hill,  shines  in  at  the  rear  windows  of  the 
mile  of  houses  lining  the  embankment. 
To  the  left  rises  the  gilded  dome  of  the 
State  House,  surmounting  Beacon  Hill  and 
its  pregnant  past ;  to  the  right,  see  the 
long  sweep  of  the  river  down  which  comes 
rapidly  a  boat-crew,  stroking  skilfully. 
Behind  lie  Cambridge  and  Cambridgeport, 
less  interesting  at  this  point,  because  of 
factories,  smoke-stacks,  and  church  steeples 
mingled  in  a  crude,  jarring  mass  at  that 
distance ;  and  far  off  at  the  north  Bunker 
Hill  Monument  stands  out,  pointing  to  the 
past.  But  looking  only  on  the  Boston  side 
of  the  picture,  what  other  American  city 
can  boast  a  more  picturesque  view  in  the 
very  midst  of  its  habitable  quarter  ?  It 
was  Charlotte  Cushman  who  requested  to 
be  buried  in  such  a  position  that  her  rest- 
ing-place might  eternally  overlook  this  view 
of  the  city  she  loved  best.  It  is  easy  to 
understand  the  spirit  of  her  desire  either 
when  standing  beside  her  grave  in  Mount 
Auburn,  across  the  Charles  River,  or  stand- 
ing thus  on  Harvard  Bridge  while  the  sun 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES         2$ 

fades.  The  views  are  identical,  with  only 
a  difference  of  distance. 

"There  may  be  other  cities  of  beauty 
and  fame,  but  they  are  not  Boston,  just  as 
heaven  may  be  interesting  although  it  is 
not  Boston,"  cries  the  native,  and  standing 
on  that  spot  even  the  Philistine  echoes  the 
sentiment  warmly. 

Boston  had  been  to  me,  during  all  my 
life  previous  to  the  period  these  random 
reminiscences  will  cover,  a  city  shrouded  in 
history,  in  whose  streets  I  expected  to  meet 
Concord  philosophers  recognisable  at  a 
glance ;  also  many  people  resembling  the 
Alcott  family,  and  at  least  ghosts  of  Rev- 
olutionary heroes. 

My  first  shock  came  when  I  found  my 
relatives  distinctly  modern  and  unrom antic, 
—  in  few  ways  different  from  other  people. 
I  had  seen  them  too  seldom  to  retain  a 
clear  impression  of  their  personality.  It 
was  to  please  my  father  that  I  accepted 
their  invitation  to  spend  the  winter  with 
them. 

Aunt  Drusilla's  invariable  costume  was 
quaint  and  suggestive,  and  her  absorption 


24         HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

in  what  she  called  "  affairs  of  serious  con- 
sequence "  was  typical  of  the  Boston  repu- 
tation, but  Uncle  John  was  a  business  man 
of  regular  habits,  who  marched  sedately 
over  Beacon  Hill  to  his  office,  with  his 
neighbours,  at  the  same  minute  every  day. 
He  lunched  so  long,  sat  in  his  club  so  long, 
dined  so  long,  read  the  Transcript  so  long, 
and  slept  longer.  A  sense  of  humour  was 
his  only  means  of  diversion.  He  and  I 
understood  each  other  from  the  first. 
When  I  asked  him  how  the  husbands  of  the 
Boston  women  reformers  felt  about  their 
wives'  work,  he  replied,  quizzically  :  "  Ob- 
serve me,  my  dear,  and  draw  your  conclu- 
sions. We  simply  attend  the  closer  to  our 
own  business  the  more  they  attend  to  other 
people's.  A  balance  must  be  struck  on  all 
questions  of  interference,  you  know." 

When  I  met  people  I  listened  closely 
for  evidences  of  unusual  "culture."  I  was 
accustomed  to  the  jargon  of  Parisian  artist 
life,  to  the  metaphysics  of  Germany  in  a 
small  way,  and  now  was  prepared  for  an  ethi- 
cal conclusion  upon  all  matters  from  Brown- 
ing down  to  pie.  Imagine  my  astonishment 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES         2$ 

when  I  found  Uncle  John  absorbed  in 
stocks  and  the  pre-Raphaelite  cult ;  aunt 
in  managing  the  boards  of  several  chari- 
table institutions  and  in  raising  money  for 
the  purpose  of  furnishing  newsboys  with 
an  extra  pair  of  Sunday  trousers ;  Eliza- 
beth in  class  reunions,  the  inside  workings 
of  "  the  Pud,"  otherwise  known  as  the 
Hasty  Pudding  Club  of  Harvard  College, 
and  two  literary  clubs,  for  which  she  was 
writing  papers  on  "  Gladstone's  Policy " 
and  "The  Lassitude  of  the  Feminine  Ma- 
jority," respectively  ;  Dorothy  in  her  dress- 
maker, the  Country  Club,  balls  and  private 
theatricals,  but  principally  in  Spanish  poo- 
dles and  fox  terriers.  Everybody  seemed  to 
have  an  object  in  life,  as  I  had  expected,  but 
what  amazing  hobbies  some  of  them  rode ! 
Dorothy  canvassed  canine  habits  as  seri- 
ously as  her  mother  governed  charity  or- 
ganisations. I  soon  learned  how  immaterial 
was  the  subject  in  hand  provided  it  were 
dealt  with  mentally  and  seriously.  Pups, 
puddings,  or  piety  were  equally  absorbing 
questions.  Clothes  were  not  a  popular 
subject,  except  among  individuals ;  they 


26         HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

were  taken  for  granted,  as  one  might  easily 
imagine  when  observing  the  population  of 
Boston.  Conversation  relative  to  moneyed 
interests  was  tabooed  among  my  aunt's 
friends.  Money,  also,  was  taken  for 
granted.  Dollars  are,  in  truth,  a  vulgar 
subject,  and  indubitably  Bostonians  are  the 
most  refined  among  Americans  at  that 
point. 

My  cousin  Elizabeth  was  considerable 
of  an  athlete.  Her  particular  friend  was 
a  girl  of  twenty-three  who,  after  being 
graduated  from  the  Harvard  Annex,  took 
degrees  in  Hebrew  and  mathematics  at 
Oxford,  England,  for  no  apparent  reason, 
but  as  a  means  to  higher  education  in 
mental  gymnastics.  She  prided  herself 
upon  entire  ignorance  of  purely  feminine 
occupations.  Her  favourite  personal  nar- 
rative was  a  story  of  how,  upon  one  occa- 
sion at  Oxford,  she  was  going  to  some 
affair  with  a  masculine  fellow  student.  As 
she  put  on  her  gloves  a  button  burst  its 
stitches.  She  was  in  despair  !  Her  land- 
lady was  out ;  what  was  she  to  do  ?  She 
never  had  sewed  on  a  button  in  her  life. 


HER   BOSTON  EXPERIENCES         2J 

The  man  said,  "  Get  me  a  spool  of  thread 
and  a  needle.  I  will  sew  it  on  for  you." 
She  found  those  requisites  in  her  land- 
lady's sewing-basket,  and  stood  watching 
the  man  sew  on  the  button.  This  she 
considered  a  distinctly  clever  situation,  and 
she  never  for  a  moment  realised  what  any 
one  else  might  think  of  her  position  in  the 
matter,  or  what  a  disagreeable  phase  of 
modern  affectation  she  illustrated.  Aunt 
Drusilla  came  very  near  sniffing  when  she 
heard  this  story,  but  she  was  too  well-con- 
nected to  do  that,  other  than  mentally. 

With  Elizabeth  and  this  Miss  Renshaw, 
I  began  my  season  in  Boston  by  frequent- 
ing the  golf  links  at  the  Country  Club. 
Miss  Renshaw,  being  a  many-time  medalist 
at  the  sport,  viewed  my  mediocre  and  er- 
ratic playing  with  open  contempt  for  femi- 
nine incapacity.  She  beat  "  The  Colonel  " 
at  every  chance,  and  her  work  with  the 
brassy  competed  fairly  with  the  men's. 
Elizabeth  and  I  were  steeped  in  admiration 
for  her  skill  on  the  putting  green,  but  I 
must  confess  my  feeling  stopped  short 
there. 


28         HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

Finally,  after  a  week  of  preparatory  par- 
tisan enthusiasm,  the  Harvard- Yale  football 
game  came  off.  Had  the  country  been 
ce}ebrating  the  return  of  heroes  from  a 
great  military  or  naval  contest,  the  City  of 
Boston  could  not  have  been  more  excited 
or  generally  upset  than  by  the  advent  of 
these  athletic  heroes.  The  populace,  the 
lap-dogs,  and  the  shops  were  decorated 
either  in  crimson  or  blue,  the  respective 
colours  signifying  the  sympathies  of  the 
wearer.  Business  was  carried  on  with 
divided  interest.  Even  elderly  Bostonians, 
who  had  never  seen  a  football  game  until 
past  their  half-century,  were  eager  for  the 
fray.  One  suburban  mother  of  nine  boys 
declared  in  print  that  she  sent  each  of  her 
sons  on  to  the  field,  regardless  of  broken 
noses,  as  she  would  have  sent  them  into 
the  tournaments  of  old,  certain  of  their 
physical  and  moral  development  as  the 
result. 

By  noon  the  electric  cars  running  across 
Harvard  Bridge  had  no  standing-room  left, 
and  every  Boston  ian  who  could  in  con- 
science get  to  the  grounds  was  on  his  way 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES         2Q 

over  in  traps,  carriages,  wagons,  on  bicycles 
and,  as  a  last  resort,  on  foot.  We  went  in 
a  party,  artd  I  was  so  pleased  to  see  actual 
enthusiasm  among  a  people  unsuspected 
of  that  characteristic  that  my  attention 
centred  almost  entirely  upon  the  spectators 
and  their  ardent  interest  in  what  proved  to 
be  a  one-sided  and  rather  tame  game. 
That  night  the  city  was  given  over  to  the 
gambols  of  the  successful  and  defeated 
heroes,  for  in  football  a  man  is  always  a 
hero,  regardless  of  achievements.  The 
entire  lower  floor  of  one  of  the  variety 
theatres  was  sold  out  to  college  men. 
They  attended  in  a  body,  and  I  could  not 
see  that  anybody  was  the  better  for  that 
fact  the  next  day ;  however,  the  lads  had 
opportunities  to  do  worse  than  they  did,  — 
may  it  be  said  to  their  credit,  —  and  the  fun 
was  a  part  of  the  occasion.  I  felt  like  a 
grandmother  among  them,  but  my  cousin 
and  her  friend  treated  them  without  ex- 
ception as  respected  seniors,  giving  the 
boys  a  taste  of  conscious  heroism  none  too 
good  for  their  dispositions  in  the  bosom  of 
the  family.  I  devoutly  wished  I  were 


3O         HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

eighteen,  and  given  to  hero-worship  my- 
self, for  then  I  might  have  tasted  the 
exhilaration  and  blood-curdling  enthusiasm 
produced  upon  the  majority  by  a  Harvard 
or  Yale  football  team. 

A  day  or  so  later  I  had  a  novel  experi- 
ence. Walking  alone  on  the  Beacon  Street 
extension,  I  felt  something  run  past  me 
attired  in  white  linen  trousers,  falling  far 
short  of  the  knee,  and  an  armless,  throat- 
less  shirt  or  sweater.  One  after  another 
of  these  scantily  dressed  male  creatures 
passed  me  by  on  the  run.  I  had  about 
decided  to  tell  an  approaching  policeman 
that  the  inmates  of  some  lunatic  asylum 
were  running  away,  when  I  was  picked  up 
by  Elizabeth,  in  the  carriage,  and  she  ex- 
plained that  the  men  were  the  Hare  and 
Hounds  Club,  taking  a  run  across  country. 
Later  I  discovered  that  these  lightly  clad 
individuals,  with  no  hats  and  with  bare  legs, 
were  to  be  encountered  at  any  moment  in 
the  streets  of  New  Boston.  One  soon  gets 
over  the  shock. 

Upon  one  other  subject  besides  football 
all  Bostonians  seemed  to  find  common 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES         31 

ground  —  the  Symphony  Concerts.  I  soon 
found  that  the  Symphony  Orchestra  was, 
after  proper  ancestry,  the  most  universal 
pride  and  boast  of  Boston  and  its  suburbs. 
The  only  Bostonian  I  ever  knew  who  saw  his 
home  from  the  outside  warned  me  to  ob- 
serve what  he  called  "  the  blossom  of  Puri- 
tanism, the  Boston  face,"  upon  the  first 
occasion  of  my  hearing  the  Orchestra.  As 
usual,  in  Uncle  John's  family,  the  women 
attended  the  auction  sale  of  season  seats 
for  these  concerts,  where  enormous  pre- 
miums are  paid.  The  women  do  every- 
thing of  that  description  in  Boston,  and 
the  men  admire  their  energy.  Each  of  us 
had  a  season  ticket  for  the  public  Rehear- 
sal on  Friday  afternoons,  which  occasions 
are,  without  doubt,  the  most  fashionable 
series  of  events  in  the  Boston  winter. 

Every  day  I  became  more  convinced 
that  society,  so-called,  the  elect  few  who 
constitute  themselves  "  the  people  "  of  a 
city,  was  of  less  collective  importance  in 
Boston  than  in  any  other  American  city. 
I  found  that  these  good  people  lived  fenced 
off  in  their  Back  Bay  district,  following  a 


32         HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

life  distinct  from  the  heart-throbs  and  pulse 
of  the  city.  Their  very  separateness  de- 
barred them  from  rights  of  leadership. 
Nobody  else  in  the  community  cared  a  rap 
what  they  thought  or  felt  except  by  way 
of  gossip,  and  many  of  the  actual  descend- 
ants of  Massachusetts  forefathers  had  no 
participation  in  the  life  of  the  Back  Bay 
or  Beacon  Hill.  Exclusiveness  sacrifices 
dominance  to  the  pleasure  of  "  me  and  my 
son,  John." 

Boston  does  not  develop  its  character 
through  the  medium  of  its  aristocracy  alone. 
It  is  the  most  democratic  city  in  America, 
if  not  in  the  world.  It  is  both  the  cradle 
and  nurse  of  independence.  Evidences  of 
these  truths  were  set  forth  in  the  costumes 
of  the  feminine  majority  in  evidence  at 
that  first  Symphony  Rehearsal  I  attended. 
All  of  fashionable  Boston  was  present,  and 
still  the  audience  did  not  look  fashionable 
from  a  metropolitan  standpoint. 

There  were  so  many  women !  If  you 
could  hear  the  plaint  of  that  exclamation 
you  would  understand  at  once  how  oppress- 
ive in  its  preponderance  is  the  femininity 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES        33 

of  Boston.  "  Woman  "  is  stamped  on  every 
inch  of  Massachusetts  ground.  She  is  as 
inevitable  as  the  seasons  She  is  more 
difficult  to  escape  than  the  Mormon  eye. 
She  inculcates  and  illustrates  the  principles 
of  freedom  all  the  way  from  her  emancipa- 
tion creed  to  the  shape  of  her  waist  and 
the  length  of  her  stride. 

Boston  Music  Hall  is  a  unique  edifice. 
One  is  tempted  to  attribute  its  existence  to 
that  same  Puritanical  spirit  which  urged 
the  Pilgrims  into  a  form  of  worship  bare  of 
ornamentation :  there  must  be  no  "  fix- 
ings "  to  distract  the  worshipper  from  his 
purpose.  So  with  Music  Hall :  nothing 
could  be  uglier ;  no  interior  could  be  more 
barren  and  unproductive  of  aesthetic  feel- 
ing. Imagine  a  building,  holding  several 
thousand  people,  built  at  the  intersection 
of  what  in  other  cities  would  be  called  the 
four  alleys  of  a  block.  This  building  is  stiff, 
grimy  and  unattractive,  without  ornament 
inside  or  out.  The  Rehearsal  is  merely 
the  first  of  two  concerts  given  weekly  dur- 
ing the  season  except  at  intervals  when 
the  Orchestra  is  away  "concertising." 


34         HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

The  hour  set  for  the  Rehearsal  is  half- 
past  two.  At  half -past  one  the  doors  are 
surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  musical  students 
and  others  struggling  for  a  first  place  in 
line.  When  the  doors  open  there  ensues 
what  looks  like  a  panic  in  a  burning  build- 
ing. Each  one  in  the  tussle  grasps  his 
admission  ticket,  worth  twenty-five  cents, 
and  certifying  a  seat  in  the  second  balcony 
reserved  for  that  purpose,  or  a  few  square 
inches  on  the  floor  for  one's  feet  in  any 
part  of  the  house.  Most  of  this  eager 
throng  carry  books  with  which  to  occupy 
themselves  during  the  long  wait  before 
them,  and  quite  evidently  as  a  means  of 
defence  during  the  scramble  for  the  best 
seats.  I  doubt  that  the  fine  new  Music 
Hall  now  in  process  of  erection  will  seem 
as  dear  to  the  student's  heart  as  this 
shabby  hall  filled  with  memories. 

At  half -past  two  the  doors  invariably 
close  upon  a  packed  house.  Men  and 
women  stand  during  the  entire  programme, 
sandwiched  side  by  side,  and  with  no  sup- 
port but  their  enthusiasm.  This  audience 
alone  suggests  youth.  Everywhere  else 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES         37 

in  Boston  the  people  seem  to  have  been 
born  mature,  but  at  the  Rehearsal,  although 
the  Boston  face  is  in  the  majority,  hun- 
dreds of  young  girls,  clad  in  their  brightest 
and  best,  give  a  butterfly  effect  to  the 
assembly  not  visible  in  the  countenance  of 
the  individual.  The  Symphony  men  have 
sauntered  into  their  places  upon  a  plain, 
barren  platform  by  the  time  the  clock, 
stationed  opposite  upon  the  first  balcony, 
indicates  five  minutes  before  half -past  two. 
There  is  a  social  murmur  all  over  the 
house.  The  hands  of  the  clock  point  to 
silence.  The  conductor  walks  out  on  the 
stage  amid  an  immediate  lull  of  voices  and 
a  conservative  hand-clap.  He  bows,  turns 
about,  raises  his  baton,  quiet  reigns  over 
the  multitude,  the  stick  falls,  and  the  re- 
markable body  of  men  begin  their  story 
of  beauty  conveyed  by  every  shade  of  emo- 
tional colour,  artistic  insight,  and  technical 
perfection  possible  to  ensemble  playing. 
The  audience  is  wrapped  in  this  atmos- 
phere for  nearly  two  hours.  No  one  en- 
joys, in  the  ordinary  acceptation  of  that 
term,  but  every  one  respects,  exalts,  bends 


38         HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

the  knee,  imbibes  —  yea,  even  unto  a  state 
of  worship  known  at  Beyreuth.  And  that 
is  why  Boston  is  the  most  musical  city  in 
America. 


CHAPTER   II 

NO  one  can  understand  the  force  of  the 
trite  saying  that  the  wind  is  tempered 
to  the  shorn  lamb  everywhere  but  on  Boston 
Common  until  one  has  put  oneself  in  the 
place  of  the  lamb  on  that  spot,  or  on  any 
other  point  of  attack  in  Boston.  No  wind 
is  so  lowering  to  the  moral  tone,  so  destruc- 
tive of  wits  and  promotive  of  temper,  as  a 
northeast  tempest  in  the  autumn,  or  the 
whirlwind  intermitting  its  fury  every  five 
minutes  from  January  until  May  in  Boston. 
It  was  in  November  that  I  started  out 
for  my  first  contest  on  foot  with  a  Boston 
nor'easter.  Knowing  full  well  Aunt  Dru- 
silla's  disinclination  to  get  the  horses  wet, 
—  no  matter  what  became  of  the  individual, 
as  is  the  prevailing  attitude  toward  horses 
in  Boston  and  other  places,  —  I  determined 
to  walk  the  half  mile  leading  to  the  Public 
39 


4O         HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

Library,  not  being  timid  about  any  weather 
I  had  hitherto  encountered.  Well  protected 
in  rain  clothes  that  I  had  found  sufficient 
even  in  Scotland,  I  started  out  to  do  some 
reading  on  my  own  specialty  in  the  quiet, 
studious  reading-rooms  of  the  crowning  pos- 
session of  Boston,  —  its  library. 

After  taking  a  few  steps  along  the  side- 
walks I  began  to  compare  myself  to  the 
shorn  lamb ;  after  walking  two  blocks  I 
experienced  the  exaltation  of  a  martyr. 
The  wind  came  from  every  direction,  even 
from  under  my  feet.  I  was  lifted  from  the 
ground  and  pitched  against  the  corner  of  a 
house.  My  umbrella  succumbed  judiciously 
at  the  start ;  it  turned  wrong  side  out  and 
broke  a  rib,  indicating  my  probable  con- 
dition if  I  pursued  the  enterprise.  I 
dragged  the  remains  by  my  side,  holding 
on  to  my  hat,  and  brushing  my  dishevelled 
hair  out  of  my  eyes  with  the  other  hand. 
Then  the  rain  fell  upon  me  with  the  force 
of  a  dozen  shower  baths,  reminding  me  of 
the  Englishman  who  insisted  he  had  never 
seen  rain  until  he  reached  Boston.  For- 
tunately, I  was  nearing  my  destination, 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES        41 

and  proving  at  the  same  time  that  grit 
strengthens  with  use,  as  does  every  other 
attribute. 

The  climax  of  my  woes  came  when  my 
boot  lace  untied  and  began  to  flap  around 
my  ankles,  tripping  me  up  at  close  inter- 
vals. This  was  unendurable.  I  stopped  at 
a  stoop,  unmindful  of  possible  spectators, 
emphatically  and  with  explosive  wrath 
dropped  the  remains  of  my  umbrella  on 
the  lower  step,  muttering  to  myself  while 
my  hair  streamed  before  my  eyes,  damp 
and  draggled  with  the  rain  ;  then,  planting 
one  foot  on  the  sidewalk,  the  other  on  the 
second  step  of  the  stoop,  I  tried  to  tie 
the  string  as  deliberately  as  possible  under 
the  circumstances.  Needless  to  say,  the 
string  was  refractory.  My  face  turned 
red,  my  temper  boiled  over,  and  I  fear 
I  stamped.  Just  then  I  looked  higher 
than  my  foot,  up  toward  the  drawing- 
room  windows  of  the  house,  and  met  the 
eyes  of  a  man  standing  there,  evidently 
enjoying  my  demonstration.  His  amused 
expression  lent  me  the  courage  of  indigna- 
tion. I  returned  to  the  attack,  succeeded, 


42         HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

and  marched  on  without  another  look  up- 
ward, but  showing  an  indignant  back.  At 
that  moment  I  received  an  indelible  impres- 
sion of  the  Boston  man. 

At  any  other  place  in  the  world  a  man 
would  have  come  to  my  rescue  with  the 
offer  of  an  umbrella ;  but  this  one  knew 
nothing  about  my  family,  consequently  it 
would  have  been  improper  for  him  to  offer 
assistance  to  me  as  a  disconnected  woman 
in  distress.  I  had  noticed  this  tendency 
toward  vacuous  indifference  in  all  the  Bos- 
ton men  I  had  met,  but  laid  it  to  the  excess 
of  female  adulation  consequent  upon  a  pro- 
portion of  one  man  to  every  twenty-five 
women ;  now  I  knew  it  was  something 
deeper,  something  probably  hereditary,  ex- 
plained by  the  expression  of  "no  in- 
tentions," adopted  generally  by  the  male 
members  of  the  Boston  population.  I  real- 
ised at  once  how  much  I  despised  that  man, 
and  how  I  longed  to  teach  him  and  his  fel- 
low citizens  a  few  lessons.  However,  my 
further  struggles  with  the  elements  kept 
me  employed  until  I  reached  the  library, 
after  a  collision  with  a  pedestrian  walking 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES        43 

with  an  umbrella  held  open  horizontally, 
thus  obscuring  his  vision.  He  made  no 
apology,  but,  giving  me  an  annihilating 
glance,  staggered  on. 

Even  in  a  nor'easter  the  Boston  Library 
and  the  other  buildings  skirting  Copley 
Square  bear  out  their  reputation.  Accord- 
ing to  the  verdict  of  architects,  they  com- 
bine to  form  the  most  interesting  square 
architecturally  in  America.  On  a  bright 
day  in  autumn  a  colourist  revels  in  the  bril- 
liant-hued  ivy  massed  upon  the  cosy  church 
and  adjacent  residences  bordering  one  side 
of  the  square  in  harmony  with  the  soft 
brown  tones  of  wonderful  Trinity  Church 
diagonally  opposite.  Those  in  search  of 
pure  lines  find  content  in  the  classic  form 
of  the  library,  emphasised  by  contrast  with 
the  Art  Museum  and  the  latter-day  edition 
of  the  historic  Old  South  Church,  whose 
congregation,  after  several  removals,  has 
settled  in  new  Boston,  a  long  distance 
from  the  original  site  of  the  church.  Cop- 
ley Square  may  justly  be  called  the  head 
of  Boston ;  exactly  where  its  heart  lies  no 
one  knows  positively. 


44         HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

After  drying  out  in  the  periodical  read- 
ing-room, I  forgot  myself  in  my  satisfaction 
with  everything  about  me.  I  walked  back 
to  the  entrance  for  another  look  at  Sir 
Harry  Vane  standing  in  his  niche,  —  only 
a  cavalier  in  bronze,  but  even  so,  replete 
with  a  grace,  nobility,  and  charm  I  had 
failed  so  far  to  find  in  any  other  Bostonian. 
I  felt  sure  he  would  not  have  left  me  on 
his  stoop  to  wrestle  unassisted  with  con- 
founding conditions.  Up  the  noble  stair- 
way, guarded  by  couchant  lions,  I  then 
went,  sitting  down  for  a  few  admiring 
moments  to  rest  my  eyes  upon  the  soft- 
tinted  marbles  and  the  mural  pictures  of 
Puvis  de  Chavannes  on  one  side,  and  on 
the  other  the  court  where  the  misunder- 
stood Bacchante  poised  for  a  short  time  in 
all  of  her  unsurpassed  loveliness,  I  saw 
her  but  once,  and  have  only  an  exquisite 
memory  of  the  most  perfect  modelling  and 
incarnate  loveliness  ever  rejected  by  expo- 
nents of  frozen  virtue.  Having  the  after- 
noon before  me,  I  took  the  elevator  for 
another  period  of  enjoyment  before  Sar- 
gent's decorations,  unequalled,  in  my 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES         4/ 

opinion,  by  any  of  the  other  choice  pos- 
sessions of  the  library.  One  learns  the 
history  of  religion  from  the  humanitarian 
standpoint  in  a  study  of  Sargent's  strong 
execution  of  a  thoughtful  conception.  His 
prophets  are  inspired  men,  not  grotesque 
supernatural  beings. 

I  was  especially  interested  in  Sargent's 
work  because,  a  few  months  previous,  I 
had  dined  in  London  with  some  particular 
friends  of  his.  My  hostess  told  me  how 
one  day  Sargent  came  to  them  in  a  mood 
of  artistic  despair,  insisting  that  he  had 
conceived  an  idea  beyond  his  powers  of 
execution.  He  explained,  then  gloomily 
insisted  that  he  was  going  home  to  destroy 
the  entire  batch  of  drawings.  They  pleaded 
with  him  not  to  do  so  until  they  had  seen 
them.  He  consented,  and,  spurred  on  by 
their  encouragement,  finished  his  noble 
design.  This  remembrance  gave  me  food 
for  long  thought  as  I  stood  before  that 
splendid  expression  of  a  great  man's  great- 
est idea,  developed  through  a  lifetime. 

Time  was  moving  on,  and  before  going 
down-stairs  I  saw  more  of  interest  in  vari- 


48          HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

ous  rooms  than  I  could  well  digest  in  an 
afternoon.  In  the  delivery-room,  later, 
I  looked  again  at  Edwin  Abbey's  graceful 
narrative  of  the  pursuit  of  the  "  Holy 
Grail,"  in  a  series  of  mural  paintings. 
His  work  is  highly  decorative,  but  the 
story  has  been  better  told  before,  through 
the  same  medium  of  expression.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  every  American  should  be  proud 
of  the  Boston  Library,  with  its  democratic 
inscription  across  the  exterior  front :  "  The 
Public  Library  of  the  City  of  Boston. 
Built  by  the  People  and  Dedicated  to  the 
Advancement  of  Learning." 

I  found  the  books  I  wanted  in  Bates 
Hall,  and  settled  myself  for  an  hour's 
indulgence  in  my  private  hobby,  which 
I  keep  concealed  from  the  general  eye 
as  closely  as  I  would  veil  a  sin,  for  I  have 
a  horror  of  seeming  masculine.  Wishing 
to  keep  my  place  in  one  book  of  reference, 
while  I  took  another  down  from  the  shelf 
near  by,  I  looked  around  for  a  book-mark, 
but  none  was  to  be  seen.  Opening  my 
money  purse,  the  only  object  I  saw  that 
would  answer  the  purpose  was  a  small 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES        49 

photograph  of  myself,  which  I  carried  to 
please  my  mother  while  away  from  her, 
for  the  purpose  of  identification  in  case  of 
murder  or  sudden  death,  both  of  which 
possibilities  were  ever  present  to  her  mind. 
I  slipped  the  photograph  into  the  place. 
The  book  fell  to  of  its  own  weight.  I  moved 
a  few  steps  away  and  reached  for  another 
book.  At  that  moment  a  hand  fell  on  my 
shoulder  with  a  masculine  force,  and  in  a 
deep-voiced  whisper  —  no  audible  speech 
being  permitted  in  the  hall  —  some  one 
said  : 

"  Bon  jour,  mon  enfant !  How  in  the 
name  of  all  that's  wonderful  did  you  ever 
arrive  at  the  Hub  ?  " 

Upon  looking  back  rather  startled,  I  saw 
the  face  of  the  strangest  woman  I  ever 
knew.  Yes,  it  certainly  was  Frances 
Thurlston,  whom  I  had  known  two  years 
before  in  Paris,  where  I  spent  nearly  a 
year  with  my  mother's  sister.  To  any  one 
who  knew  Frances  it  would  be  needless 
to  say  she  was  an  unmarried  woman.  She 
is  the  only  professed  man-hater  in  whose 
professions  I  put  any  faith.  Probably 


5<D         HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

the  most  masculine  of  women  herself,  she 
merely  tolerated  the  sex  whose  ways  she  imi- 
tated as  her  choice  between  two  evils.  She 
said  it  was  a  good  thing  to  be  a  man,  but 
the  worst  thing  possible  to  endure  a  man. 
Frances  must  have  been  forty-five,  at  least, 
at  that  time.  She  came  as  near  being  an 
artist  as  any  one  could  who  escaped.  She 
did  many  things  well  without  excelling 
in  any  one  thing,  except  criticism  of  other 
people's  work.  Among  the  artists  in  Paris 
she  was  considered  the  ablest  woman  critic 
who  had  ever  lent  her  keen  insight  to  their 
acceptance  or  rejection.  She  wrote  in  a 
bold,  vigorous  style;  she  painted  better 
than  an  amateur ;  she  played  several 
instruments  fairly  well ;  but  inherited 
means  had  killed  her  artistically.  She 
was  rich ;  necessity  is  the  mainspring  of 
genius.  Frances  had  no  living  relative 
except  a  married  sister,  of  whom  she  spoke 
occasionally.  For  women  she  cared  in 
almost  a  masculine  way.  I  had  been  one 
of  her  fancies  the  winter  I  spent  in  Paris. 
Her  tailor-made  broadcloth  costumes,  worn 
with  white  shirt-fronts  and  standing  collars, 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES         5! 

emphasised  her  large-featured,  boyish  face 
as  did  her  manly  attitudes  —  whether 
affected  or  natural  I  never  knew.  They 
were  always  the  same. 

Drawing  in  a  surprised  breath,  I  ex- 
claimed aloud  :  "  Did  you  fall  with  the  rain 
or  come  in  the  wind  ? " 

"  'Sh  !  "  she  answered,  cautioning  me. 
"  Don't  talk  out  loud  in  here.  Come  into 
the  corridor  and  we'll  have  it  out."  For- 
getful of  books  and  photographs,  I  gathered 
together  my  belongings  and  followed  her. 
We  settled  ourselves  in  one  of  the  marble 
embrasure  seats  overlooking  the  court  near 
the  lions.  She  began:  "You're  looking 
the  equal  of  yourself.  How  did  you  get 
here  ? " 

I  told  her  my  situation. 

"  Going  in  for  the  '  smart  set/  are  you  ?  " 
was  all  she  replied,  disdainfully.  "  I  never 
thought  you  belonged  there  —  you  have 
too  much  of  the  real  thing  in  you.  Know 
Mrs.  Bobby  Short  and  the  Hazeltine  Gresh- 
ams,  I  suppose,  and  the  rest.  They  try 
hard  to  change  the  temperature  of  Boston, 
but  nothing  will,  under  another  century 


52          HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

of  new  blood.  It's  only  a  big  town  affect- 
ing city  airs,  just  as  a  country  girl  dresses 
to  go  to  the  village." 

I  confessed  that  I  had  met  the  people 
she  mentioned,  but  that  Aunt  Drusilla 
seemed  to  belong  to  another  set. 

"  Humph  !  "  she  replied.  "  Old  Beacon 
Hill  holding  up  her  skirts  for  fear  of  con- 
tagion. The  truth  is,  Mrs.  Robert  Short 
does  more  toward  the  advancement  of  this 
place  in  civilisation  than  a  whole  woman's 
clubful  of  the  rest.  She  educates  striving 
artists,  loans  her  valuable  books  and  pictures 
upon  every  occasion,  and  does  a  deal  of 
good  with  one  hand  the  other  doesn't  know 
about." 

"  Then  why  do  the  Boston  women  have 
so  much  to  say  about  her  ? "  I  asked. 

"  Jealous  !  "  Frances  grunted.  "  Did  you 
ever  hear  of  that  failing  ?  The  fact  is,  Mrs. 
Short  is  not  really  in  her  proper  sphere  in 
life,  any  more  than  I  should  be  in  her 
shoes.  She  is  an  artist,  every  inch  of 
her.  She  feels  some  of  the  truths  we 
are  all  seeking  in  beauty-land.  If  she 
weren't  manacled  by  a  masculine  attach- 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES         53 

ment  I  dare  say  she  would  live  as  I  do. 
There  is  just  the  same  thing  the  matter 
with  her  there  is  with  me  —  nothing  more. 
I  live  my  life  as  I  like ;  she  is  compelled  to 
temporise  and  meet  '  The  Hub '  half  way. 
I  met  her  once  in  Rome  and  liked  her ; 
most  people  do.  I  say,  Margaret,  I'm 
glad  you  aren't  locked  to  a  masculine 
attachment  yet ! " 

I  assured  her  of  my  lingering  freedom, 
and  insisted  upon  knowing  something  about 
herself. 

"I'm  a  poor  subject  of  conversation," 
she  growled,  amiably.  "  Nothing  to  tell. 
Same  life.  After  the  crowd  broke  up  in 
Paris  last  year,  I  got  a  working  fever  on. 
Decided  I'd  let  it  off  in  the  land  of  «  freaks,' 
the  only  city  I  belong  to  in  America.  My 
sister  lives  here,  too,  and  one  must  see 
one's  kin  once  a  century.  She's  Mrs. 
Howard  Drake.  Know  her  ?  " 

Yes,  I  had  met  her.  Was  she  visiting 
her  sister  ? 

"  Visiting !  I  visit  ?  "  she  returned. 
"  You  know  me  better  than  that !  I 
haven't  stopped  over  night  with  anybody 


54         HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

in  twenty  years.  No !  I  have  an  apartment 
with  a  studio,  and  I'm  digging.  You  may 
not  believe  it,  but  my  fever  hasn't  worked 
off  in  a  year.  If  I  could  lose  my  money 
now  I'd  be  famous  yet.  You  come  along 
with  me.  I've  a  cab  down-stairs.  Come 
home  with  me  and  see  my  picture.  I 
found  a  model  in  the  North  End  equal 
to  a  little  Florentine  I  had  once  at  Julien's 
years  ago.  Then  you  must  come  to  one  of 
my  'Sundays'  and  meet  some  'freaks.' 
You  know  I  always  gather  my  own  kind 
about  me.  There  are  plenty  of  them  in 
Boston." 

That  night  at  dinner  I  told  of  my  meet- 
ing with  a  friend  I  had  known  in  Paris, 
going  somewhat  into  details  in  regard  to 
her  personality.  Uncle  said,  "A  manly 
female,  I  should  judge.  I  have  rooted  ob- 
jections to  the  species."  Elizabeth  turned 
her  slow  eyes  upon  me  with  the  question, 
"  What  does  she  do  ?  " 

"Pretty  much  everything  but  go  into 
society,  which  she  calls  a  large  dish  of 
'  giggle,  gabble,  gobble,  git,'  quoting  Doctor 
Holmes." 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES         55 

"  I  should  like  to  study  a  person  possess- 
ing those  characteristics,"  replied  Elizabeth 
earnestly. 

"Margaret,"  spoke  up  Aunt  Drtisilla, 
"  I  hardly  think  your  mother  would  care 
to  have  you  pursue  the  acquaintance  of 
such  a  person  in  America.  Such  acquaint- 
ances may  do  for  the  other  side,  but  not 
in  Boston.  A  woman  of  no  connections  —  " 
"Pardon  me!"  I  interrupted,  playing 
my  trump  card,  "but  Miss  Thurlston  is 
a  sister  to  Mrs.  Howard  Drake." 

"The  Howard  Drakes  of  Marlborough 
Street  ? "  inquired  Aunt  Drusilla,  looking 
interested.  "  That  is  altogether  different. 
Howard  Drake's  mother  was  an  Osgood  of 
Beacon  Hill,  and  further  back  her  mother 
lived  near  us  on  Summer  Street.  I  remem- 
ber Frances  Osgood's  great-grandfather's 
portrait,  painted  in  the  costume  of  an  Eng- 
lish officer  of  the  Guards.  The  Osgoods 
were  not  Revolutionary  patriots,  but  they 
were  of  distinguished  English  connections. 
Would  you  care  to  call  upon  Margaret's 
friend,  Elizabeth  ?  I  never  visit  strangers, 
you  know.  I  have  not  even  visited  my 


56         HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

cousin,  Mary  Norris,  in  Brookline,  for  ten 
years.  It  is  such  a  journey  out  there,  and 
my  life  is  so  fully  occupied  with  larger 
duties." 

Elizabeth  replied  that  she  would  be 
pleased  to  know  Miss  Thurlston,  provided 
"her  day"  did  not  interfere  with  club 
work,  or  the  Symphony,  or  the  Cambridge 
Conferences,  or  a  new  course  of  lectures 
on  Browning,  or  a  dozen  other  plans 
arranged  for  the  winter. 

"What  are  the  Cambridge  Confer- 
ences ? "  I  asked. 

Uncle  John  replied,  with  the  laughing 
light  I  had  seen  in  his  eyes  once  or  twice 
before :  "  They  are  seats  of  learning,  my 
dear,  where  prophets  ladle  out  culture  with 
spoons  called  ethics,  and  the  congregation 
worships  Buddha." 

"John!"  said  Aunt  Drusilla,  severely, 
"how  can  you  speak  jestingly  of  one  of 
the  finest  institutions  in  Cambridge  ?  The 
Conferences,  Margaret,  we  attend  on  Sun- 
day afternoons  for  the  purpose  of  broaden- 
ing ourselves  along  all  ethical  lines  of 
thought.  These  meetings  are  deeply  inter- 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES         $? 

esting.  Elizabeth  rarely  misses  one,  and  I 
know  she  will  be  glad  to  take  you  as  her 
guest." 

"  Yes,  you  must  not  fail  to  go,  my  dear," 
returned  Uncle  John,  as  he  left  us  for  the 
library,  where  he  spent  most  of  his  even- 
ings alone.  "  Of  course,  Elizabeth  only 
goes  for  the  ethics,  but  one  of  her  friends 
told  me  it  was  '  perfectly  fine,'  that  Mots 
of  young  professors  and  other  college  men 
go,  and  we  have  a  jolly  time  afterward.' 
You  can  sleep  through  the  meeting  in 
anticipation  of  '  afterward/  Margaret.  That 
is  the  way  I  enjoy  myself  at  ethical 
societies." 

Uncle  John  went  out,  Aunt  Drusilla 
looked  resigned,  and  Elizabeth  picked  up 
a  book. 

•  The  next  day  I  opened  my  pocket  book, 
and  for  the  first  time  remembered  I  had 
left  my  photograph  in  the  library  book. 
Not  for  several  days  could  I  find  time  to 
get  to  the  library,  owing  to  our  excess 
of  engagements.  In  two  days  I  attended 
the  New  England  Woman's  Club,  where 
the  members  no  longer  knit  and  crochet  in- 


58         HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

formally  while  the  programme  goes  on,  as  in 
former  days,  but  attend  strictly  to  literary 
business  according  to  parliamentary  law ; 
another  Symphony  Rehearsal,  a  dinner,  a 
lecture  at  a  private  house  upon  the  archi- 
tecture of  the  Renaissance,  a  luncheon, 
and  a  weekly  "at  home"  of  an  author 
who  never  makes  calls,  but  receives  in 
salon  fashion,  once  a  week,  anybody  who 
chooses  to  attend  her  gatherings,  which 
are  full  of  variety  and  the  kind  of  persi- 
flage one  reads  in  the  novels  one  does  not 
understand.  This  lady  was  well  connected  ; 
therefore,  although  she  lived  in  a  socially 
decadent  part  of  town,  Elizabeth  was  per- 
mitted  to  mix  with  the  great  variety  of 
human  beings  to  be  met  at  her  house,  and 
to  introduce  me  there.  London  was  in  the 
air,  at  this  house.  Nearly  everybody  had 
spent  some  time  there,  and  I  found  a 
number  of  writers  and  painters  who  knew 
English  friends  of  mine.  I  can  safely  say 
that  half  hour  was  the  most  interesting 
I  had  spent  socially  in  Boston.  It  was 
neither  stiff,  nor  pedantic,  nor  frisky.  Fi- 
nally, when  I  went  for  my  photograph,  it  was 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES        59 

not  to  be  found.  There  was  no  picture 
in  the  book  of  reference  I  had  used ;  could 
some  one  have  carried  it  off?  I  was 
annoyed  at  my  indiscretion,  but  spilt  milk 
is  never  worth  crying  over.  In  a  few  days 
I  forgot  all  about  the  incident,  having 
mentioned  it  to  no  one. 

Before  this  I  had  discovered,  by  observa- 
tion and  conversation,  that  Boston  dances, 
dinners,  and  teas  were  about  the  same  as 
those  one  attends  in  any  other  city,  with 
this  difference :  professional  people  were 
to  be  met  everywhere  in  Boston.  Artists 
are  not  patronised  there ;  they  are  frater- 
nised, and  included  socially  without  passing 
an  examination  upon  ancestry,  as  are  no 
other  outsiders.  Greatly  to  the  credit  of 
Boston  stands  this  fact.  Brains  and  talent 
will  pass  muster  where  no  amount  of  money 
can  among  Bostonians,  unless  it  be  with 
those  who  are  ancestry  ridden.  No  doubt 
they  make  this  recognition  somewhat  of  a 
pose,  but  underneath  that  attitude  there  is 
an  honest  admiration  of  ability.  The  major- 
ity of  people  occupied  with  the  arts  have 
small  time  or  inclination  for  society  per  se ; 


60         HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

but  if  by  chance  they  have  social  tenden- 
cies, and  are  equipped  with  real  ability  and 
fairly  good  manners,  they  can  gratify  these 
instincts  in  Boston  where  millionaires  with- 
out the  requisites  pass  unheeded. 

Frances  Thurlston  said  she  could  not  see 
why,  as  far  as  business  occupations  went, 
Boston  had  higher  claims  than  Chicago. 
"For  my  part,  I  cannot  see  any  refined 
difference  between  pork  and  leather.  One 
is  the  inside  of  an  animal,  the  other  the 
outside,"  she  insisted.  But,  notwithstand- 
ing this  fact,  I  noticed  that  Frances  chose 
Boston  as  a  place  of  residence  while  in 
America. 

Mr.  Warren  Hartwell  had  returned  from 
Europe  and  called  several  times  by  the 
first  week  in  December.  Aunt  Drusilla 
found  him  almost  as  absorbing  a  topic 
of  conversation  as  reforms.  Dorothy  spoke 
of  him  in  the  tone  of  a  near  relative,  but 
Elizabeth  seldom  mentioned  him.  Finally, 
one  night  at  a  dance  at  Dorothy's,  Mr. 
Hartwell  and  I  held  our  first  conversation 
alone.  I  said  to  him  :  "  There  is  a  familiar 
look  about  you,  Mr.  Hartwell.  Have  I  met 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES        6 1 

you  somewhere  before,  or  has  my  aunt's 
admiration  of  you  thrown  a  sub-conscious 
picture  on  my  brain  ? " 

"  Where  could  we  have  met  ? "  he  asked, 
with  a  strangely  knowing  smile.  Then, 
without  waiting  for  a  reply,  he  continued  : 
"  I  feel  that  same  certainty  of  having  seen 
you  before.  There  is  something  familiar 
about  the  eyes." 

I  changed  the  subject,  because  I  did  not 
understand  his  apparent  amusement,  inex- 
plicable to  me.  Soon  he  asked  how  I 
liked  Boston. 

"When  you  ask  me  that,"  I  replied, 
"  I  feel  as  the  foreigner  must  as  he  lands 
at  New  York,  besieged  to  give  his  impres- 
sions of  America  before  he  has  seen  any- 
thing but  the  Statue  of  Liberty." 

"  But  you  have  been  here  several  weeks. 
That  I  can  certify,"  he  replied,  again  look- 
ing amused. 

"Oh,  yes,  all  of  a  month,"  I  said,  begin- 
ning to  be  provoked  by  his  covert  smiles. 
"  I  am  reserving  my  impressions  to  put  in 
a  book,  provided  I  have  imbibed  enough 
atmosphere  to  produce  one  when  I  leave 


62         HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

in  the  spring.  So  far  I  have  only  one 
distinct  impression:  hatred  of  one  Boston 
man  whom  I  do  not  know." 

"  Is  the  gentleman  anonymous  ?  A  great 
unknown  ? "  Mr.  Hartwell  inquired. 

"He  is  anonymous  and  unknown  to  me, 
but  not  altogether  a  gentleman.  He  saw 
me  in  distress  and  only  laughed.  You 
know  the  Boston  laugh  is  frequently  mis- 
understood by  strangers." 

"Perhaps  you  did  not  give  this  espe- 
cially unfortunate  Bostonian  an  opportunity 
to  assist  you,"  Mr.  Hartwell  replied,  with 
his  grand  air  balanced  by  a  sudden  light- 
ing of  his  indifferent  eyes.  He  was  a  man 
whom  everybody  called  interesting,  but  no 
one  could  define  the  source  of  this  element 
in  him.  His  eyes  looked  indifferent  and 
tired  unless  he  was  interested ;  altogether 
his  face  was  unfathomable,  his  power 
elusive.  He  nettled  me,  and  still  I  did 
not  dislike  him. 

"  A  man  should  make  and  seize  his  op- 
portunity, not  wait  for  women  to  beseech 
him,  after  the  Boston  fashion,"  I  replied, 
rather  discourteously,  I  fear. 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES         63 

"  Give  him  another  chance,  Miss  Allston. 
Boston ians  are  open  to  improvement,  you 
know.  By  the  way,  do  you  like  the  Boston 
weather  ? " 

I  looked  up  at  him  quickly,  astonished 
that  such  a  man,  after  five  minutes,  should 
be  reduced  to  the  weather  as  a  topic  of 
conversation.  Dorothy  coming  up,  I  made 
no  reply ;  but  again  I  noticed  his  unreason- 
able smile. 

After  that  Mr.  Hartwell  and  I  met  con- 
stantly. Aunt  Drusilla  assured  me  that 
Warren  was  the  best-connected  man  of 
the  younger  set  in  Boston.  "Everybody 
expected  him  to  marry  into  one  of  the 
old  families,"  she  continued,  significantly. 
Happening  to  glance  at  Elizabeth  during 
this  explanation,  I  saw  a  slow  blush 
cover  her  face  and  neck,  whether  of  anger 
or  something  else  I  could  not  tell.  Eliza- 
beth always  seemed  to  me  to  be  one  of  the 
inevitable  spinsters.  She  was  "an  old 
maid "  at  ten  years  of  age,  but  now  she 
was  also  a  woman  of  refinement  and  large 
pedantic  intelligence.  No  doubt  beneath 
her  calm  exterior  she  quivered  at  her 


64        HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

mother's     lightly     veiled     references     to 
Warren  Hart  well. 

As  Frances  Thurlston  said,  if  I  depended 
upon  Bostonians  to  show  me  Boston,  I 
would  go  away  in  deep  ignorance  of  the 
city,  for  the  reason  that  every  division 
of  the  inhabitants  knows  exclusively  its 
own  Boston.  None  of  my  relations  had 
ever  been  to  the  top  of  Bunker  Hill 
Monument,  but  they  had  climbed  the 
Alps ;  nor  were  they  familiar  with  many 
of  the  other  features  of  their  city  rele- 
gated to  tourists.  Boston  has  not  only 
the  most  beautiful  and  interesting  suburbs 
of  any  city  in  America,  but  it  contains  also 
more  concentric  circles  of  humanity  than 
I  have  found  elsewhere  in  this  country. 
Each  circle  touches  another  at  some  point. 
The  South  End  is  like  a  young  man  who, 
starting  out  in  life  with  brilliant  prospects 
and  making  an  utter  failure  of  himself, 
gradually  and  reluctantly  falls  below  the 
point  of  respectability.  The  North  End, 
in  reality  historic  Boston,  is  now  the  Ital- 
ian and  Jewish  quarter,  whence  the  police 
gather  their  most  exciting  reports,  and 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES         65 

where  artists  go  for  picturesque  humanity, 
—  soiled  and  temperamental.  Some  other 
sections  are  the  byword  for  uninteresting 
respectability.  Then  there  is  the  Back 
Bay,  the  fashionable  quarter,  built  upon 
slippery  ground,  so  to  speak,  considering 
that  the  whole  district  west  of  the  Public 
Gardens  is  made  ground. 

What  a  calamity  if  Boston  should  awake 
some  morning  to  find  its  prominent  citizens 
vanished,  —  "  sunk  into  the  unknowable," 
as  they  would  say  at  the  Cambridge  Con- 
ferences, houses  and  all !  Much  sterling 
worth  and  unlimited  snobbery  would  be 
disposed  of  simultaneously,  but  the  city 
in  all  probability  would  soon  supply  other 
prominent  citizens  of  shorter  pedigree,  and 
the  gap  might  be  filled  with  more  earth  and 
them.  Still,  the  character  of  the  present 
Back  Bay  would  be  irrevocably  lost. 

These  matters  were  all  explained  to  me 
by  Frances,  who  knew  thoroughly  every 
city  in  which  she  lived.  I  would  run  away 
from  the  limitations  of  the  Back  Bay  for  fre- 
quent expeditions  into  the  remainder  of  the 
city  under  her  guidance. 


66         HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

The  poetic  Indian  summer,  which  lasted 
at  intervals  far  into  December,  enticed  us 
constantly  out-of-doors.  We  drove  over 
great  stretches  of  the  firmest,  smoothest 
roads  to  be  found  in  the  environments 
of  any  city.  Brookline  seemed  to  me 
a  haven  of  beautiful  content,  with  its  fine 
old  trees  and  homes  of  various  kinds,  from 
places  built  on  the  plan  and  in  the  propor- 
tions of  an  English  manor-house,  sur- 
rounded by  acres  of  grounds,  to  cosy 
modern  houses,  of  good  architecture  gen- 
erally speaking ;  one  and  all  quite  appar- 
ently homes,  —  the  effect  one  searches  for 
and  misses  in  Boston  proper. 

One  day  Frances  and  I  were  walking 
along  Columbus  Avenue,  looking  neither 
to  the  right  nor  left,  when  two  men  ap- 
proached. I  noticed  one  touch  the  other, 
who  laughed  coarsely  and  addressed  us 
with  "  Good  day,  ain't  it  ? "  both  slowing 
up.  I  showed  such  astonishment  that 
Frances  whispered,  "  Look  ahead  !  Don't 
speak ! " 

We  walked  on  silently.  The  men  laughed 
again,  but  passed  on.  When  we  turned  into 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES        67 

Dartmouth  Street,  Frances  delivered  her- 
self:  "I  meet  more  of  that  in  this  town 
than  in  any  city  in  the  world,  not  ex- 
cepting Paris.  By  five  o'clock  Saturday 
afternoon,  men  begin  to  reel  through  the 
streets,  and  Sunday  is  a  day  of  dissipation 
among  the  lower  classes.  I  can't  tell  you 
how  often  I  —  yes,  a  middle-aged  woman  — 
have  been  spoken  to  in  the  last  month  on 
the  street  in  the  daytime.  Boston  is  only 
an  overgrown  college  town ;  but  these 
beasts  one  meets  on  the  street  are  not 
college  chaps,  and  nobody  seems  to  know 
who  or  what  they  are.  A  woman  is  never 
in  danger  anywhere  if  she  behaves  herself, 
but  she  is  open  to  extreme  annoyance,  and 
there  can  be  no  denying  that  Boston  streets 
are  invaded  by  an  army  of  the  most  disa- 
greeable pests." 

Frances  never  made  a  direct  statement 
that  she  could  not  substantiate.  She  told 
one  of  the  truths  which  no  Bostonian  will 
admit  except  on  compulsion. 

Columbus  Avenue,  the  street  where  this 
disagreeable  episode  occurred,  might  be 
called  an  asylum  for  Boston  freaks.  In 


68          HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

its  palmy  days,  the  residences  lining  Co- 
lumbus Avenue's  asphalt  pavement  were 
built  and  occupied  by  Boston  citizens  claim- 
ing, incipiently,  New  York's  spirit  of  go  and 
glitter.  They  laid  out  a  broad  avenue  after 
the  manner  of  the  New  York  social  mart, 
building  imitative  brownstone  fronts  as 
homes,  and  attempting,  unsuccessfully,  to 
turn  the  tide  of  fashion  away  from  Beacon 
Street.  Some  of  these  imitative  people, 
with  dogged  pride,  still  live  in  the  brown- 
stone  fronts.  But  the  major  part  of  the 
houses  on  Columbus  Avenue  are  let  out 
by  the  room,  or  rooms,  to  human  phenom- 
ena in  the  shape  of  professors  of  every 
sleight-of-hand  science  known  to  modern 
folk.  On  that  avenue  one  can  find  sover- 
eign cures  for  every  human  affliction,  all 
done  after  some  patent  method  especially 
attractive  to  Bostonians. 

Running  off  of  this  avenue  are  the  most 
interesting  domestic  squares  in  Boston. 
The  homes  date  from  the  beginning  of 
the  South  End,  and  are  mostly  of  English 
urban  architecture,  with  low  stoops.  These 
houses  are  built  of  brick  enriched  in  colour 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES        69 

by  time,  and  during  six  months  of  the  year 
embowered  in  ivy.  A  refreshing  plot  of 
green  grass  and  trees  runs  between  the 
curved  line  of  houses,  and  all  is  quiet, 
restful,  and  dignified.  Carts  do  not  rumble, 
rarely  does  an  equipage  pass,  children  do 
not  shout,  and  what  strata  of  society  occu- 
pies these  remote  sanctuaries  in  the  heart 
of  a  throbbing  city  it  is  difficult  to  deter- 
mine when  even  the  policemen  have  no 
convincing  information  to  give  pertaining 
thereto. 


CHAPTER    III 

THE  day  before  Christmas  a  snow  fell, 
fine  and  powdery,  over  which  one 
could  imagine  Saint  Nick  speeding  behind 
"eight  tiny  reindeer,"  lively  and  quick, 
generous  and  hearty. 

Aunt  Drusilla  told  us  that  when  she 
was  a  child  gifts  were  exchanged,  if  at 
all  in  New  England,  at  Thanksgiving. 
Christmas  was  a  religious  day,  and  she 
recalled  one  year  when,  as  a  girl  of  fifteen, 
she  made  some  little  gift  to  her  father 
during  the  holiday  season,  as  she  had 
known  a  young  friend  to  do,  and  was 
reprimanded  for  her  conduct. 

"  You  girls  do  not  realise  what  a  change 
has  come  over  the  spirit  of  Boston  since  I 
was  a  child,"  she  said.  "  In  those  days 
parents  were  prominent  members  of  a 
family  ;  the  children,  of  little  consequence. 
70 


HER   BOSTON  EXPERIENCES         73 

When  I  came  out  I  was  given  a  ball,  but 
the  married  people  were  conspicuous  in 
the  gathering ;  not  merely  a  few  frisky 
married  women  called  chaperons,  but  fine 
ladies  and  gentlemen  of  all  ages.  Young 
girls  were  to  be  seen,  not  heard.  Nowa- 
days the  girls  go  to  dances  alone  in  their 
parents'  carriage,  with  no  protector  but  a 
coachman  and  footman  picked  up  from 
dear  knows  where,  servants  are  so  transient 
and  unreliable  in  our  time.  Or  several 
girls  will  take  a  public  carriage  together, 
and  ladies  of  my  age  are  not  even  invited." 

"They  would  be  glad  to  have  you  go, 
mama-r,  if  you  would  only  talk  about 
somethin'  they  understand.  People  don't 
want  to  discuss  their  souls  or  other  peo- 
ple's souls  at  a  dance,"  said  Dorothy,  tor- 
menting her  Spanish  poodle  by  making 
thrusts  at  him  with  a  paper-cutter. 

"  No,  they  prefer,  as  does  one  of  my 
daughters,  to  talk  scandal  and  the  French 
slang  of  the  Latin  Quarter,"  replied  Aunt 
Drusilla,  gathering  her  gray  silk  shawl 
about  her  shoulders  with  an  offended 
air. 


74         HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

"  What  an  idea-r,  mama-r !  "  replied 
Dorothy.  "  We  talk  books,  pictures, 
music,  and  art  —  with  a  big  A  —  until  I 
frequently  wish  we  really  knew  what  we 
were  talkin'  about. 

"  Have  you  noticed,  Margaret,  that  the 
people  who  actually  do  somethin'  in  Bos- 
ton talk  very  little  about  it  ?  I'll  take  you 
with  me  to  the  Lesters',  on  the  Hill.  Of 
course,  you  have  read  Mr.  Lester's  books, 
or  if  you  haven't  you  must  read  one  be- 
fore we  go.  Quote  an  author  to  his  face 
and  he  is  your  friend.  Mr.  Hartwell  goes 
there  a  lot.  He  thinks  the  Lester  set  the 
only  one  worth  knowin'  in  Boston.  The 
Lesters  go  everywhere,  —  they  are  very 
well  connected,  both  here  and  in  London, 
—  and  on  their  day  one  sees  a  lot  of 
writers  and  such  people  there  who  never 
condescend  to  come  to  me  or  to  mama-r." 

"Dorothy,  you  put  on  a  wrong  'r' 
then,"  I  said. 

"  The  idea-r  !  "  she  exclaimed  ;  "  I  never 
do  that." 

"You  did  it  then  again,"  I  replied, 
laughing. 


HER   BOSTON  EXPERIENCES         J$ 

"  Where  ?  I  don't  believe  it.  You 
told  me  I  called  the  singer  Melbar,  Melba-r, 
when  I  know  I  say  Melba-r." 

"  You  certainly  do  say  Melba-r,  Doro- 
thy. You  are  as  deaf  to  superfluous  r's  as 
the  rest  of  New  England.  Console  your- 
self with  the  reflection  of  a  Massachusetts 
farmer  who  once  said  to  me :  *  Well,  I 
cal'late  if  r's  is  put  on  in  places  they  ain't 
used  to,  outside  of  New  England,  it's 
because  them  other  folks  don't  know 
nothin'  'bout  usin'  'em.'  ' 

Dorothy  laughed  good-naturedly.  "I 
can  hear  that  we  drop  our  g's,  but  I  can't 
hear  any  difference  in  our  pronunciation  of 
the  word  '  idea-r,'  any  more  than  Elizabeth 
can  hear  the  nasal  sound  in  her  voice." 

This  conversation  took  place  the  day 
before  Christmas,  and  we  decided  not  to 
go  to  the  Lesters'  until  after  the  holidays, 
which  were  already  filled  with  engage- 
ments. After  this  decision  had  been 
reached,  Dorothy  jumped  up,  exclaiming : 
"  Here  I  sit  when  I  have  an  appointment 
to  meet  Warren  Hart  well  at  a  jeweler's ! 
I  promised  to  help  him  with  his  Christmas 


76        HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

shoppin'.  Come  on,  girls.  Don't  you 
want  to  go  along  ?  " 

Elizabeth  had  promised  to  drive  with 
her  mother,  whose  day  was  occupied  in 
directing  the  dispensation  of  charities  con- 
tributed by  the  various  societies  and  asso- 
ciations she  represented.  I  started  off 
with  Dorothy,  whose  carriage  was  at  the 
door.  As  we  drove  down-town,  Dorothy 
said,  with  her  rather  wicked  smile  :  "  See 
here,  Madgie,  it  seems  to  me  you  are  run- 
nin'  Elizabeth  and  the  other  girls  rather 
close  with  Warren.  He  tells  me  you  have 
shown  him  how  weak-minded  it  is  to  sit 
half  the  day  at  the  Somerset  or  Puritan  Club 
and  spend  the  other  half  in  'innocuous 
desuetude.'  He  is  really  a  clever  chap, 
but  lack  of  necessity  has  ruined  his  ambi- 
tion. Perhaps  you  have  stirred  him  up,  for 
he  goes  to  his  office  every  day  now.  But 
I  say,  Madgie,  don't  you  think  you  were 
indiscreet  to  give  him  your  photograph  so 
early  in  the  day  ?  I'm  no  prig  like  mama-r, 
but  there  is  a  limit,  you  know." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  are  talking 
about,  Dorothy,"  I  returned,  feeling  as 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES        ?/ 

stiff  as  I  must  have  looked.  "  I  neither 
have  designs  on  the  only  eligible  man 
there  seems  to  be  in  Boston  society,  nor 
have  I  given  him  my  photograph.'' 

"  Now  don't  get  snippy  about  it,  my 
dea-r.  I'm  only  Dorothy;  you  mustn't 
mind  me.  I'm  not  scoldin'.  I  should  be 
only  too  glad  to  have  Warren  for  a  cousin, 
but  I  don't  like  his  showin'  your  photo- 
graph— " 

"  Showing  my  photograph  !     Where  ? " 

"At  the  club  the  other  day.  Fred 
heard  of  it  through  some  of  the  men,  and 
he  didn't  like  it  one  bit." 

"  Where  did  he  get  my  photograph  ? " 
I  demanded. 

"That's  the  question,"  she  replied. 

"  Well,  as  I  am  not  a  professional  beauty 
nor  an  actress,  nor  do  I  do  anything,  my 
pictures  are  not  for  sale ;  so  I  think  Fred 
must  be  mistaken." 

"Then  you  did  not  give  it  to  him  ?  " 

"  I  give  it  to  him  !  I  thought  you  knew 
me  better  than  that,  Dorothy." 

"I  thought  so  myself,  Madgie,"  she 
said,  soothingly. 


78         HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

"Perhaps  it  is  a  mistake.  I'll  speak 
about  it  to  Fred  again." 

We  were  silent  a  moment ;  then  I  said : 
"  Put  me  down  here,  Dorothy.  I  do  not 
wish  to  meet  Mr.  Hartwell  until  Fred  finds 
out  the  truth  of  this  affair." 

"  Never  mind,  —  "  she  began. 

"  Set  me  down  at  once.  I'll  walk  the 
rest  of  the  way  and  do  some  shopping  while 
I  cool  off.  I  respected  Mr.  Hartwell  more 
than  any  other  man  I  have  met  here." 

She  stopped  the  coachman  and  set  me 
down,  expressing  regret,  and  promising  to 
probe  the  matter  through  her  husband. 
I  walked  very  fast  through  the  Public 
Gardens  and  Common,  a  fairyland  of  light 
flaky  snow  that  had  fallen  the  night  be- 
fore, loading  the  trees  with  the  garments 
of  the  Snow  Queen,  —  a  wonderful  sight ! 
But  even  the  beauty  of  the  Common  could 
not  turn  my  thoughts  from  the  revelation 
just  made  me.  Warren  Hartwell  and  I 
had  become  sincere  friends  even  in  that 
short  while.  I  forgave  him  his  indiffer- 
ence and  hereditary  Bostonianisms  be- 
cause of  many  counter-attractions.  He 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES         Si 

seemed  to  forgive  my  lack  of  those  quali- 
ties for  somewhat  the  same  reason.  I  did 
not  understand  him  always,  nor  did  he 
mean  that  I  should.  In  the  midst  of  an 
intelligent  conversation  he  would  say,  lan- 
guidly, "  What  do  you  think  of  the  Boston 
weather  by  this  time,  Miss  Allston  ? " 
while  from  under  his  half-closed  lids  there 
came  a  look  reminding  me  of  that  mocking 
tone  in  his  voice.  At  first  I  thought  the 
weather  must  be  his  hobby,  but  he  never 
talked  on  that  subject  with  any  one  else  in 
my  hearing ;  then  I  decided  that  weather 
was  the  weak  spot  in  his  brain,  as  some 
scientists  think  we  all  have  one,  and  finally 
I  refused  to  answer  him,  which  made  his 
laugh  more  frequent  and  disagreeable. 

One  Sunday  morning  we  were  walking 
together  on  Commonwealth  Avenue  with 
the  stream  of  fashionable  pedestrians  re- 
turning home  from  church,  when  Mr. 
Hartwell  suddenly  asked  :  "  Did  any  one 
ever  show  you  how  to  tie  a  boot  lace  so 
that  it  will  stay  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  replied  ;  "  many  people  have, 
with  poor  results." 


82         HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

"  If  you  will  permit  me  I  will  show  you 
some  day  how  to  make  a  warranted  knot. 
You  might  find  it  useful  in  case  of  rain." 

"  This  is  some  more  book  talk,  I  sup- 
pose," I  returned,  looking  at  him  quickly. 
"Subterranean  meanings  in  pure  literary 
form." 

"  Not  at  all.  John  Bradley  is  the  man 
for  that  sort  of  thing.  Most  women  com- 
plain of  boot  laces  when  walking  far.  Did 
you  never  have  one  come  untied  on  the 
street  in  the  rain  or  snow  ?  I  have." 

"Yes,  indeed,  I  have,  to  my  disgust." 
Then  I  remembered  my  experience  of 
more  than  a  month  before,  and  told  him 
about  it,  and  why  I  hated  one  Bostonian 
so  much. 

He  smiled  lazily  several  times  during 
the  narrative,  and  admitted  that  "  the  man 
must  have  been  a  cad."  At  the  end  of 
my  story  he  remarked  :  "  Try  to  forgive 
him.  He  was  a  Bostonian,  and  couldn't 
help  it." 

"  Do  you  know  that  man  ? "  I  asked, 
suspiciously. 

"  I  know  nearly  all  the  men  about.     But 


HER  BOSTON-  EXPERIENCES        85 

he  has  never  spoken  to  me  of  the  circum- 
stance if  I  do  know  him,  so  I  cannot  say." 

Now,  as  I  thought  of  what  Dorothy  had 
told  me,  my  mind  at  once  reverted  to  that 
talk,  and  I  hated  him  almost  as  much  as  I 
did  the  other  man. 

How  gay  the  crowded  streets  were! 
Tremont  and  Washington  Streets,  with 
their  narrow  sidewalks,  from  which  the 
hurrying  crowds  overflowed  into  the 
streets,  were  resplendent  with  holiday 
wares  upon  which  the  sun  shone  gaily. 
Some  one  pounded  me  on  the  chest  with 
the  end  of  a  parcel ;  then  a  fat  woman 
brushed  between  a  large  man  and  me, 
sending  him  into  the  gutter.  Few  apolo- 
gise on  Washington  Street.  Apologies 
are  either  taken  for  granted,  or  not  in- 
tended, on  the  busy  streets  of  Boston. 

Presently  the  crowd  came  to  a  standstill 
before  a  Santa  Claus  in  a  shop  window.  I 
could  not  move  one  way  or  another.  A 
man  came  out  of  a  stairv/ay  against  which 
I  was  pressed.  The  crowd  threw  me 
against  him.  "I  beg  your  pardon,"  said 
a  familiar  voice  above  my  shoulder.  Look- 


86         HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

ing  up  in  surprise  at  the  apology,  I  found 
myself  fairly  thrown  into  the  arms  of  War- 
ren Hartwell. 

"  Miss  Allston  ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  Are 
you  hurt  ?  What  are  you  doing  here  in 
this  mob  ? " 

"I  couldn't  help  it,"  I  replied.  "They 
pushed  me  against  you.  Dorothy  is  wait- 
ing for  you  at  the  jeweler's." 

"  Aren't  you  coming,  too  ? "  he  asked. 

"No,"  I  replied,  coldly.  "Hurry,  or 
you  will  keep  her  waiting." 

Just  then  the  crowd  parted  and  I 
slipped  away  from  him  without  another 
word.  I  walked  on  down  Washington 
Street  past  the  Old  South  Meeting-house 
and  as  far  as  Newspaper  Row  ;  then  back 
again,  stopping  at  a  book  store.  In  there 
the  first  person  I  ran  against  was  Frances 
Thurlston,  who  knew  every  book  store  by 
heart. 

"  Just  the  girl  I  want ! "  she  exclaimed. 
"  Are  you  coming  to-night  ?  It  is  my 
'  freak '  night,  you  know,  and  I  wish  you 
to  meet  some  of  the  people  who  will  be 
there." 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES        8? 

I  promised  to  go,  provided  the  girls  had 
made  no  other  engagement  for  me. 

"  My  sister  is  coming  to-night,  with 
your  friend,  Mr.  Warren  Hart  well,  in 
tow,"  said  Frances,  as  she  gave  what  she 
called  "a  Boston  punch"  with  her  elbow 
to  a  woman  who  tried  to  walk  over  us  in 
her  attempt  to  secure  a  clerk. 

That  afternoon  I  went  with  Dorothy 
and  Elizabeth  to  a  piano  recital  given  by 
one  of  Mrs.  Bobby  Short's  numerous 
protegees,  assisted  by  one  of  the  most 
interesting  song  singers  in  Boston.  The 
recital  was  held  in  the  De  Medici  room  of 
The  Tuileries  and  was  more  or  less  a  chari- 
table affair,  aside  from  its  advertising  pur- 
poses. There  are  more  good  recitals  in 
Boston  during  the  season  than  any  one 
could  possibly  enjoy ;  consequently  the 
friends  or  patrons  of  the  musicians  signify 
to  their  friends  how  much  under  obligation 
they  will  be  placed  to  any  one  buying 
tickets  to  these  subscription  concerts. 

When  the  well-seasoned  professional 
holds  forth  at  the  attractive  little  subter- 
ranean hall  called  Steinert's,  he  takes  more 


88         HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

chances  with  the  public,  and  generally, 
with  a  few  particular,  popular  exceptions, 
suffers  the  consequences  ;  for  chamber 
music,  aside  from  the  Kneisel  Quartette's 
performances,  goes  begging  in  Boston,  as 
it  does  in  all  American  cities.  Of  course, 
Mrs.  Bobby  Short  was  there,  as  gracious 
and  as  independent  of  public  opinion  as 
ever.  She  was  surrounded  by  several 
masculine  artistic  satellites,  all  of  whom 
she  had  assisted  toward  an  honest  living 
in  some  way  or  another,  thus  causing  the 
public  tongue  to  wag  its  easily  grea?ed 
muscles.  Her  particular  friends  were 
there,  and  a  few  others,  like  Elizabeth  and 
myself. 

The  same  reverent  hearing  was  given 
this  performance  that  I  had  observed  at 
other  musical  entertainments  in  Boston, 
where  the  average  intelligence  is  unques- 
tionably beyond  that  of  other  American 
cities.  When  the  trite,  misrepresented 
word  "  culture  "  is  concerned  there  is  little 
to  be  said  in  favour  of  Boston,  as  contrasted 
with  other  places  ;  but,  with  the  best  school 
system  we  have  in  our  country,  the  finest 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES        89 

library,  and  a  large  percentage  of  heredi- 
tary intelligence  to  begin  on,  it  would  be 
surprising  and  mortifying  if  the  average 
intelligence  were  not  high. 

Dorothy  whispered  to  me,  before  the 
performance  began :  "  Warren  Hartwell 
asked  me  what  was  the  matter  with  you 
this  mornin'  —  " 

The  pianist  appeared.  I  put  my  finger 
on  my  lips,  indicating  silence,  and  heard 
nothing  more  of  Mr.  Hartwell. 

Christmas  greens  hung  in  bright  quanti- 
ties every  place  we  went  that  day.  When 
I  reached  Frances  Thurlston's  in  time  for 
a  cosy  dinner  with  her  alone,  before  the 
"  freaks  "  arrived,  her  apartment,  too,  was 
festooned  at  every  available  spot  with 
holly  and  evergreens ;  but  there  was  no 
mistletoe,  I  noticed.  Our  dinner  together 
was  in  commemoration  of  a  Christmas 
Eve  spent  in  Paris  with  a  gay  party  of 
English  and  Americans  two  years  pre- 
vious. At  eight  o'clock  the  "  freaks  "  be- 
gan to  come,  most  of  them  people  deprived 
of  home  life,  for  whom  Frances  was  mak- 
ing a  bit  of  Christmas  cheer,  although  she 


9O         HER-  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

would  have  denied  the  sentimental  accusa- 
tion. She  was  a  good  hostess,  usually 
touching  the  best  side  of  every  one. 

A  few  of  these  people  I  had  met  before. 
They  were  nearly  all  local  celebrities  in 
some  especial  way. 

Frances  told  me  that  if  any  one  asked 
me  how  I  liked  the  climate,  to  reply, 
"The  east  winds  give  me  a  tendency  to 
rheumatism."  She  had  no  time  to  ex- 
plain, for  the  guests  began  to  arrive ;  but 
when,  a  few  moments  later,  I  found  my- 
self talking  to  a  middle-aged  woman  with 
a  kind  face  and  pussy-cat  manners,  wearing 
a  costume  representing  several  different 
periods  of  fashion,  and  she  asked  me  if 
Boston  satisfied  my  ideal,  I  replied  :  "  Cer- 
tainly the  east  winds  do ;  they  give  me  a 
rheumatic  tendency." 

"And  you  so  young!"  she  exclaimed, 
reproachfully.  "  My  dear  child,  you  have 
no  rheumatism  —  you  cannot  have  —  you 
must  not  have  disease.  Disease  is  sin. 
You  must  deny  it.  You  are  God's  child, 
made  in  his  perfect  image.  You  create 
your  own  sin  apart  from  his  essence,  and 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES        Ql 

sin  is  disease.  Say  to  it,  'out,'  and  it  will 
out.  Remember  that  only  spirit  lives ; 
your  body  is  no  more  than  the  food  you 
eat.  Come  to  me  if  you  lose  possession  of 
your  spirit,  and  I  will  do  my  part  toward 
its  resuscitation." 

"Yes'm,"  I  replied,  too  astonished  at 
her  outburst  and  at  my  own  sin  to  say 
more. 

"  Promise  me  that  you  will  deny  sin, 
my  dear,  and  —  ah  !  Mr.  Davis,  so  glad 
to  see  you !  This  is  Miss  Allston,  our 
dear  Miss  Thurlston's  guest.  I  was  de- 
monstrating to  her  how  needless  disease 
is  — "  She  continued  to  expound  her 
doctrines  to  a  running  accompaniment  by 
Mr.  Davis,  who  was  evidently  a  brother  in 
the  faith,  with  small  regard  to  the  clothing 
of  his  flesh  in  anything  but  spirit,  his  cos- 
tume being  an  ordinary  business  suit, 
creased  and  untidy. 

Frances  interrupted  their  talk,  which 
was  carried  on  entirely  between  themselves, 
while  I  stood  by,  an  amused  but  apparently 
forgotten  listener,  by  bringing  up  a  lady, 
also  middle-aged,  but  with  a  beautiful, 


92         HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

poetic,  faded  face.  Accompanying  her 
was  a  tall,  thin  young  man  with  very  black, 
searching  eyes  and  a  great  deal  of  black 
hair.  He  said  very  little;  he  seemed  to 
listen  with  his  eyes.  The  lady,  Miss  Tor- 
rington,  was  charming. 

Presently  the  young  man,  looking  across 
the  top  of  my  head  with  a  professional 
glance,  said,  abruptly,  "  See  the  blue  lights 
in  her  hair.  They  fairly  quiver." 

Miss  Torrington  followed  the  painter's 
gaze,  replying,  with  ecstatic  expression : 
"  I  have  seen  nothing  else  while  we  talked. 
What  tone  there  is !  The  shadows  in  the 
broad  light  must  be  superb.  Green  is 
needed  somewhere,  don't  you  think  ?  Per- 
haps about  the  throat.  Then  a  little  dis- 
tance, and  what  an  effect !  Where  would 
you  touch  in  the  vanishing  point,  were  you 
working  in  the  wave  of  hair  toward  the  ear 
as  the  point  of  high  light  ?  " 

"I'd  give  her  several  trees  and  a  lane 
in  perspective,  and  put  the  figure  in  the 
middle  ground,  draped  in  whites  and  blues. 
She  is  a  better  figure  than  head  model. 
The  vanishing  point  would  fall  at  the  sky 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES        95 

line  of  the  lane,  I  should  say.  What  a 
composition  !  If  I  could  only  get  those 
hair  lights  !  Blue  !  Blue  !  " 

They,  too,  had  forgotten  me.  This 
time  I  was  lost  in  my  hair,  but  I  plucked 
up  courage  to  ask,  "  Do  you  see  any  blue 
devils  there  ?  I  have  them,  I  know." 

"  My  dear  Miss  Allston,  you  must  for- 
give our  rapt  admiration  of  your  radiant 
hair.  My  friend  is  a  rare  colourist ;  an 
artist  of  whom  we  all  expect  miracles.  I 
am  only  a  humble  follower  of  the  noble 
impressionist  idea,  but  he  is  a  true  disciple, 
a  genius."  The  young  man  himself 
seemed  to  take  this  all  for  granted. 

This  black-eyed  impressionist  now  de- 
manded, "Which  do  you  feel  the  most, 
line  or  colour,  Miss  Allston  ? " 

Happily  I  was  saved  from  answering  by 
a  brisk  young  author,  who  flashed  his  wit 
at  one  with  dazzling  illumination.  He 
approached,  greeting  us  all  with  "  Is  the 
night  gray  or  purple  ?  Teaching  the 
visitor  what  colour  she  is  ?  I  know  them 
and  like  them  almost  as  well  as  I  do  my 
own  books,  Miss  Allston.  This  man  here 


g6        HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

assures  me  he  sees  purple  in  my  hair.  I 
tell  him  it  is  printer's  ink,  oozing  out  of 
my  gray  matter.  Eh  !  Duncan  ? " 

"  I'll  leave  him  to  file  his  wits  or  boil 
them  down  on  you,  Miss  Allston,"  replied 
the  artist,  with  a  smile,  as  he  turned  to 
speak  to  a  lady  who  had  captured  Miss 
Torrington. 

"  My  wits  are  like  beef :  better  for  cold 
storage.  That's  why  I  live  in  Boston. 
May  I  etherise  time  for  you  until  you  are 
claimed  by  a  better  man  ? "  asked  Mr. 
John  Bradley,  whose  books  were  as  popu- 
lar as  he  himself. 

"  What  if  he  should  never  come  ?  He 
must  be  rare,"  I  replied,  thinking  hard  to 
keep  up  with  him. 

"  Then  I  should  insist  that  the  majority 
ruled,  and  pledge  myself  to  Paradise.  But 
here  comes  the  better  man,  just  when  he 
isn't  wanted.  He  asked  me  to  present 
him." 

A  portly  gentleman  afflicted  with  bald- 
ness approached,  dressed  in  proper  evening 
dress,  as  was  the  author.  He  spoke  with 
a  slight  accent,  either  German  or  Scandi- 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES        9/ 

navian ;  which,  I  could  not  determine. 
"Miss  Thurlston  tells  me  you  have  lived 
in  Paris,  miss.  How  does  this  city  of 
Puritanical  atmosphere  interest  you  ?  Do 
the  east  winds  unsettle  your  moral  pur- 
pose, as  they  bid  fair  to  mine  ?  " 

"  My  morality  is  not  in  the  least  affected 
so  far,  but  my  bones  are,"  I  replied. 
"The  east  wind  gives  me  a  tendency  to 
rheumatism." 

"  Ah !  That  is  bad ;  but  it  can  be 
mended.  Have  you  yet  learned  to  know 
of  the  healer  we  have  in  our  midst  ?  His 
theories  can  be  traced  directly  to  the  New 
Testament.  They  are  worth  examining. 
His  power  is  that  of  obsession.  You 
know  when  the  spirit  leaves  the  body  it  is 
not  instantly  purified,  but  hangs  between 
heavenly  and  earthly  leanings.  Those 
spirits  that  succumb  to  the  remembrance 
of  the  flesh  return  to  earth,  settling  in  the 
form  of  disease  in  human  beings.  This 
man  simply  exorcises  these  evil  spirits 
by  passing  his  hand  over  the  spot  they 
inhabit  —  " 

"  Ah,  come   now,  Gratton !  "    said  Mr. 


Q8         HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

Bradley.  "  Don't  tell  the  young  lady  she 
is  possessed  with  devils." 

"  He  is  a  mental  will-o'-the-wisp,  miss. 
He  is  never  serious.  How  can  we  know 
unless  we  investigate  ?  Truth  is  elusive. 
It  must  be  probed.  It  is  good  to  believe." 

"Yes,  if  you  can  change  your  belief 
once  a  week,  as  you  do,"  replied  the  other, 
smiling  with  that  humour  in  his  eyes  con- 
doning his  frequent  liberty  of  speech. 

Before  the  evening  was  over  I  became 
so  mixed  in  my  mind,  what  with  expres- 
sions of  polite  anarchy,  the  imminence 
of  the  socialistic  idea,  the  importance  of 
college  settlements,  and  other  theories 
hinged  on  to  those  I  have  quoted,  that  I 
wondered  how  the  world  could  be  large 
enough  to  hold  them  all  where  each  man 
and  woman  overflowed  with  explosive  ideas 
directed  oppositely. 

Mrs.  Drake  came  late,  accompanied  by 
a  musician  with  a  handsome  face,  and  a 
blase",  world-worn  expression ;  but  Mr. 
Hartwell  did  not  appear. 

Frances  asked  if  I  liked  the  rest  of  the 
"  freaks "  as  much  as  I  did  her.  I  re- 


HER  BOS  TOM  EXPERIENCES      IOI 

plied,  " '  The  east  winds  in  Boston  give 
me  a  rheumatic  tendency.'  Merry  Christ- 
mas ! " 

Not  until  Christmas  Day  did  I  have  a 
chance  to  talk  with  Dorothy  alone  again. 
My  box  from  home  and  many  Christmas 
letters  made  me  feel  like  a  boarding-school 
girl  away  from  home  during  the  holidays. 
Mr.  Hartwell  sent  Aunt  Drusilla  enough 
roses  to  bank  a  mantel,  but  not  a  sprig  to 
either  Elizabeth  or  me.  He  dined  with 
us  that  day,  as  his  only  near  relative,  a 
married  sister,  was  spending  several 
months  at  Aiken,  where  many  Bostonians 
go  for  health  and  gaiety.  I  attended  ser- 
vice Christmas  morning  with  Uncle  John 
at  Trinity  Church,  whose  great  domed 
interior,  harmonious  tones,  and  peaceful 
sanctity  called  to  my  mind  the  character  of 
the  man  whose  grand  dimensions  of  mind, 
soul,  and  body  had  unconsciously  built  the 
glory  of  this  edifice  as  a  monument  to  his 
own  noble  endeavours  in  behalf  of  human- 
ity. I  never  heard  Phillips  Brooks  preach, 
but  one  autumn  I  crossed  from  Liverpool 
in  the  same  boat  with  him,  and  before  we 


IO2       HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

were  out  a  day  every  one  on  board  felt 
the  presence  of  a  great  soul  in  our  midst, 
—  a  soul  so  childlike  in  its  own  purity,  so 
manly  in  its  strength,  that  no  man  nor 
woman  could  be  other  than  his  or  her  best 
in  its  uplifting  presence. 

When  we  walked  home  across  Copley 
Square,  along  Dartmouth  Street  to  Beacon 
Street,  every  house  was  brightened  by  the 
greens  at  the  windows.  Uncle  John  said 
to  me,  with  a  little  dry  sound  in  his  voice  : 
"This  day  always  brings  up  my  mother  to 
me,  Margaret.  Father  never  permitted 
much  Christmas  at  our  house,  —  I  wish 
you  could  have  seen  the  old  place,  oppo- 
site to  where  the  theatre  is  now,  —  but  she 
always  had  a  pair  of  new  stockings  for  us 
boys  on  Christmas  morning,  and  in  the  toe 
was  some  little  gift,  something  each  boy 
wanted  particularly.  Why,  Margaret,  I 
remember  Boston  when  there  was  no  Back 
Bay.  I  remember  seeing  herds  of  sheep 
and  cattle  driven  along  Washington  Street, 
then  a  strip  of  road  leading  from  Boston 
to  Dorcester.  I'm  getting  to  be  an  old 
man,  Margaret,  but  it  has  made  me  young 


HER   BOSTON  EXPERIENCES       103 

to  have  your  bright  face  and  natural  ways 
in  the  house." 

I  merely  put  my  arm  in  his  for  a 
moment  and  made  him  tell  more  about  the 
Boston  of  his  youth.  Uncle  John  was  a 
lonely  man.  The  members  of  his  family 
were  too  much  engrossed  with  outside 
matters  to  waste  time  in  making  him 
happy. 

Dinner  took  the  better  part  of  Christ- 
mas afternoon.  Dorothy's  one  little  boy 
was  nearly  a  moral  and  physical  wreck  by 
night,  being  the  only  representative  of 
childhood  among  us. 

Dorothy  made  an  opportunity  to  say  to 
me,  "  I  asked  Fred  about  that  photograph 
again,  Madgie,  and  told  him  what  you  said. 
He  is  indignant,  and  says  he  will  speak  to 
Warren  about  it,  if  you  will  allow  him  to." 

"No,"  I  replied,  shaking  my  head,  "  I 
want  no  words  between  them  over  me. 
Thank  Fred  for  me  and  tell  him  I  intend 
to  find  out  the  truth,  and  punish  Mr. 
Hartwell  myself,  if  necessary." 

"Better  let  Fred  do  it,"  she  insisted; 
but  I  was  firm. 


IO4       HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

All  that  Christmas  Day  I  treated  Mr. 
Hartwell  with  calm  indifference,  until 
finally  he  walked  off  with  a  slight  shrug 
and  scarcely  noticed  me  again. 

Elizabeth  had  a  strange  way  of  colour- 
ing whenever  he  approached  her.  She 
was  never  familiar  with  any  one  nor 
enthusiastic  in  her  friendships.  She  was 
impenetrable  where  her  affections  were 
concerned. 

During  the  holidays  I  scarcely  breathed 
between  engagements.  The  marvel  of  it 
all  is  the  longevity  of  the  Boston  women. 
They  work  harder  in  and  out  of  society 
than  they  could  endure  to  work  at  bread- 
winning.  My  nature  is  too  open  for  me 
even  to  pose  as  a  flirt,  but  I  had  a  plan 
laid  for  penetrating  the  depths  of  Mr. 
Warren  Hartwell,  and  it  required  the  aid 
of  several  other  men.  After  Christmas 
Day  I  resumed  my  ordinary  manner 
toward  him. 

He  asked  me  one  night  after  a  theatre 
party  if  he  had  done  anything  to  offend 
me.  I  replied,  "  Is  that  your  conscience 
speaking  ? " 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES       105 

"  Oh,  no !  It  is  the  conscience  of  my 
ancestors." 

"Is  it  probable  that  you  would  do  any- 
thing to  offend  me  that  I  could  only  know 
about  second-hand  ?  "  I  asked. 

Speaking  with  his  usual  lazy  indiffer- 
ence, he  replied : 

"  No,  I  love  you  too  well  for  that/' 

I  stared  at  him  one  moment,  then  ex- 
claimed, angrily : 

"  I  did  not  think  even  Boston  manners 
could  be  so  execrable ! "  and  left  him 
standing  alone. 


CHAPTER   IV 

NOT  until  late  in  January  did  an  oppor- 
tunity arise  for  the  experience  at  the 
Lesters'  which  Dorothy  had  promised  me. 
I  had  come  to  the  conclusion,  owing 
to  the  frequent  disillusion  I  had  met  with, 
that  heroes  of  the  artistic  world  were  best 
viewed  at  a  distance  personally  if  one 
wished  to  preserve  a  shred  of  the  worship- 
ing faculty.  As  a  rule,  the  artistic  nature 
gives  out  its  best  possessions  through  the 
medium  of  its  creations  or  interpretations, 
reserving  a  disenchanting  personality  for 
social  relations.  Having  taken  keen  delight 
in  Mr.  Lester's  books,  I  had  no  special 
desire  to  know  the  other  side  of  him  ;  but 
for  the  sake  of  another  view  of  Boston, 
I  went  to  his  house,  only  to  find  him  one 
of  the  welcome  exceptions.  Perhaps  he  is 
not  sufficiently  great  to  afford  a  disagreeable 
106 


HER   BOSTON  EXPERIENCES      IO/ 

manner ;  at  any  rate,  he  presented  a  genial, 
well-bred  exterior,  devoid  of  egotistical  man- 
nerisms. Talented  people  are  like  Boston 
men,  —  so  used  to  seeing  themselves  in 
admiring  eyes  that  a  wholesomely  truthful 
reflection  either  elicits  their  surprised  ad- 
miration, or  brings  out  the  disagreeable 
qualities  of  any  spoiled  child.  To  this 
day,  whenever  I  mount  Beacon  Hill,  a 
mysterious  feeling  of  expectancy  comes 
over  me.  I  peer  around  for  a  fleeting 
glance  of  Priscillas,  John  Aldens,  or  other 
far-away  people  who  rightfully  belong  among 
those  quaint  old  houses  still  breathing  out 
history  and  romance. 

Beacon  Hill  is  the  only  quiet  part  of 
Boston ;  removed  from  the  disturbance 
of  steam  engines,  electric  cars,  and  gen- 
eral traffic,  —  in  fact,  it  is  the  only  se- 
questered portion  in  the  centre  of  any 
large  city  that  I  have  found  on  this  side 
of  the  Atlantic.  At  night  only  occasional 
electric  lights  dazzle  the  inhabitants  of  the 
air,  but  gaslight,  in  old-fashioned  lamps, 
one  here  and  there,  attached  to  the  angles 
or  sides  of  a  house,  flickers  about  among 


io8     HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

the  old-fashioned  shadows.  The  ancient 
city  residence  of  the  Adams  family,  now 
passed  into  other  hands,  stands  behind 
its  one  tree  as  if  hiding  natural  grief  at 
the  unfaith  of  the  family  which  bred  its 
traditions. 

The  ballroom  of  spacious  dimensions, 
built  for  a  Miss  Adams  upon  the  occasion 
of  her  first  appearance  in  the  social  world, 
has  been  renovated ;  but  no  modern  taste 
can  do  away  with  the  atmosphere  of  the 
dignified  past  still  permeating  that  desolate 
room,  draughty  with  the  breath  of  former 
days,  —  a  draught  too  subtle  and  spirited 
to  be  warmed  away  by  modern  furnaces. 
This  town  house  of  the  Adams  family 
represents  Mount  Vernon  Street,  and  the 
one  block  of  Beacon  Street  on  the  hill 
where  certain  families  honourably  continue 
their  ancestral  line,  though  hemmed  in  dis- 
agreeably by  tailor  shops  and  a  club  house. 

In  front  of  these  old  places  moves  the 
hum  of  human  masses  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
backward  and  forward  in  step  with  time, 
through  the  Common,  with  its  circuitous 
walks  shaded  by  noble  trees  of  illustrious 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES       IOQ 

ancestry,  its  Frog  Pond  and  soldiers'  monu- 
ment, all  echoes  of  more  humanly  pic- 
turesque days.  Behind  Mount  Vernon 
and  Chestnut  Streets,  whose  occupants  are 
sometimes  of  the  true  blue  and  oftener  of 
assorted  blood,  though  choosing  always 
conventional,  stereotyped  modes  of  living, 
comes  the  section  reputed  to  be  Bohemia. 
There,  on  Pinckney  Street  above  Charles 
and  along  Joy  Street,  one  begins  to  see  life. 
The  majority  of  the  old  homes  on  Pinckney 
Street  are  converted  into  lodging-houses, 
although  a  few  professional  families  still 
occupy  an  entire  house  apiece.  There  are 
to  be  found  rooming  spinsters  of  Mayflower 
descent,  generally  poor  connections  of  the 
same  families  residing  on  Beacon  Street  not 
far  away,  —  near  enough  to  mention  fre- 
quently and  intimately ;  musicians  ;  news- 
paper people  ;  painters  ;  incipient  authors 
and  a  few  full-fledged ;  professors  of  many 
languages  ;  teachers  ;  composers  ;  impecuni- 
ous youths  with  high  spirits  and  one  "  dress 
suit "  among  several ;  female  typewriters 
and  private  secretaries.  Here  is  the  free- 
dom of  the  Latin  Quarter,  with  but  a  small 


110      HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

amount  of  its  license.  Human  nature  bears 
a  close  family  resemblance  all  over  the 
world  when  judged  by  communities  with 
similar  earmarks,  but  in  America  individ- 
uals merely  pose  as  Bohemians ;  they  sel- 
dom come  up  (or  down)  to  the  "  Simon 
pure  "  article  of  foreign  cities.  America  is 
eminently  a  respectable  country,  well- 
washed  morally,  and  with  considerable 
respect  for  the  neighbours'  opinion.  Ameri- 
cans become  Bohemianised  in  Paris,  but 
seldom  in  Boston,  where  the  spook  of 
Cotton  Mather  and  other  standards  of  re- 
spectability still  hold  sway  with  a  groan 
and  a  ghostly  shudder  at  a  mishap.  In 
truth,  this  Boston  Bohemia  stands  for  good 
spirits  and  innocent  unconventionality,  and 
is  several  times  more  virtuous  than  Boston 
society,  no  matter  how  pretentiously  and 
flamboyantly  the  little  country  tries  to  dis- 
prove its  virtue. 

There  can  be  no  general  license  in  a 
neighbourhood  dotted  with  boarding-houses 
where  one  must  pass  an  examination  both 
in  respectability  and  brains  before  admit- 
tance is  allowed,  and  which  are  conducted 


HER   BOSTON  EXPERIENCES       III 

by  patterns  of  spinsterial  virtue  who  sit  at 
the  head  of  a  table  full  of  cultured  boarders, 
announcing  the  cultured  menu  to  each  in- 
dividual somewhat  in  this  wise :  "  Miss 

,  will  you  partake  of  lamb  warmed  in 

its  own  gravy  ?  Or  a  suggestion  of  shep- 
herd's pie  ?  Or  possibly  chicken  pie  to 
come  ? " 

Beyond  this  hint  at  freedom  the  negroes 
begin  to  live  and  hold  their  own  in  a  solid 
mass  to  the  very  foot  of  the  hill.  This 
is  fashionable  Africa,  where  the  quality  is 
high  and  the  negro  inhabitant  would  be  a 
foreigner  to  the  members  of  his  race  in 
most  cities.  But  to  the  north  and  east 
of  the  hill,  surrounding  the  rear  of  the 
State  House,  there  is  a  life  carried  on  under 
the  rose,  in  the  silence  of  conscious  guilt, 
which,  whether  it  be  found  in  the  Latin 
Quarter  of  Paris,  in  Bloomsbury,  Lon- 
don, or  on  the  shady  side  of  Beacon  Hill, 
is  the  rotten  core  of  society.  This  life  is 
one  of  the  various  weeds  called  license, 
grown  in  the  garden  of  freedom  and  not 
reached  by  the  hand  of  the  law. 

Below  Charles  Street,  bearing  upon  the 


112       HER   BOSTON  EX  PER  II NCES 

river  at  the  western  foot  of  the  streets 
reviewed  above,  there  is  another  exclusive 
quarter.  There  one  finds  the  Church  of 
the  Advent,  from  which  run  off  whimsical 
little  streets  laid  out  in  half-circles  or 
obtuse  angles,  and  living  amidst  some 
strictly  Sabbatarian  and  conventional  fami- 
lies, the  "quality  of  the  artistic  life,"  who 
divide  their  time  between  the  callings  of 
society  and  those  of  their  professions. 
There  one  hears  an  echo  of  Paris,  too ; 
many  French  phrases  intersperse  conversa- 
tion, imitation  salons  are  held  on  Sunday 
night  and  other  nights.  Without  doubt 
that  tiny  section  covers  more  of  the  real 
wit,  wisdom,  and  worldliness  than  any  one 
other  part  of  Boston.  On  one  of  these 
streets  Dorothy  took  me  to  an  evening 
at  the  Lesters'.  A  man  at  one  time  was 
known  by  the  books  he  read  and  the 
friends  he  made,  but  at  present  in  judging 
his  tendencies  one  must  also  consider  the 
interior  of  his  home,  no  matter  if  that 
home  be  contained  in  one  room.  The 
interior  of  the  Lesters'  house  was  very 
eloquent  upon  this  theme.  The  hangings, 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES       1 1 3 

furniture,  pictures,  cosy  corners,  and  deco- 
rative objects  of  interest  were  all  in 
accord  with  an  aesthetic  nature  moulded 
by  intimacy  with  the  world.  The  guests, 
with  few  exceptions,  were  of  the  American 
type  never  mentioned  abroad ;  people  who 
are  accustomed  from  birth  to  social  usages, 
including  the  use  of  forks  for  pie  and 
beans  —  and  apropos  of  beans  let  me  inter- 
rupt myself  long  enough  to  say  that  no  one 
can  judge  of  baked  beans  outside  of  Bos- 
ton. Just  as  the  Scotchman  loses  his 
most  interesting  characteristics  removed 
from  his  "  ain  fireside,"  so  beans  lose  all 
family  resemblance  and  flavour  baked  out- 
side of  Massachusetts. 

There  is  an  unutterable  succulence 
about  a  Boston  bean,  and  a  toothsome 
sweetness  which,  once  wholly  appreciated 
under  proper  conditions,  can  never  be  lost 
to  the  memory  of  the  palate. 

But,  to  return,  Elizabeth,  who  was  with 
us  that  night,  soon  became  absorbed  in  a 
discussion  with  the  same  tired-eyed  com- 
poser whom  I  have  mentioned  before, 
concerning  the  ethics  of  the  Wagnerian 


114      HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

*> 

theory  of  art.  My  charming  hostess  pre- 
sented to  Dorothy  and  me  a  celebrated 
Frenchman  who  was  lecturing  upon  French 
literature  at  Harvard.  He  seemed  im- 
mensely attracted  toward  Dorothy,  to  whom 
he  said  with  an  air  of  flippant  intensity,  so 
to  speak:  "A  manifold  pleasure  to  meet 
in  such  charming  society  the  ideal  Ameri- 
can, Mrs.  Granger !  It  is  my  hope  that 
she  has  not  failed  to  remember  the  occa- 
sion upon  which  we  met  last—  then 
he  turned  into  French,  which  Dorothy 
chattered  glibly,  and  Elizabeth  included 
me  in  her  conversation  with  the  composer. 
"Perhaps  my  cousin,  who  has  lived  in 
Paris,  can  help  us  to  decide,"  she  said. 
"  Margaret,  I  contend  that  the  Wagnerian 
principles  of  Art  are  too  fraught  with  meta- 
physical significance  ever  to  take  hold 
upon  the  Latin  mind.  Mr.  Tomlins  does 
not  agree  with  me.  What  do  you  think  ? " 
She  looked  at  me  with  the  Boston  face ; 
he  glanced  at  both  of  us  as  if  bored  with 
any  opinion  opposing  his  own.  I  replied, 
"  True  art  is  not  racial.  The  Latin  races 
discriminate  between  the  true  and  the 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES      I  I  5 

spurious  in  Wagner's  work,  whereas  the 
Germans  idolise  him  without  discrimina- 
tion." I  used  all  of  those  big  words 
bravely,  —  the  punishment  must  be  made 
to  fit  the  crime.  Elizabeth  was  impressed 
and  the  composer  ceased  to  be  bored  for 
a  minute.  He  took  up  the  discussion 
almost  as  if  I  were  his  equal  mentally ; 
but  to  my  relief  Mr.  John  Bradley  came 
up  just  then.  "Again  I  find  you  a  vic- 
tim," he  said.  "All  I  am  good  for  in 
Boston  is  to  act  as  a  sandwich  between 
wit  and  wisdom.  There  is  a  man  looking 
for  you.  Have  you  seen  him  yet  ?  Hart- 
well.  He  told  me  to  hunt  you  up." 

"You  are  indeed  a  social  martyr,  Mr. 
Bradley,"  I  replied.  "If  Mr.  Hartwell 
feels  the  need  of  my  society  he  can  find 
me  without  putting  his  friends  on  the 
warpath." 

"Oh,  don't  call  it  that,  or  I  shall  feel 
called  upon  to  assume  the  arduous  duties 
of  an  arbitration  committee.  Hartwell's 
a  lazy  duck.  Then,  too,  he  knew  I'd 
enjoy  the  mission.  He  only  asked  me 
if  you  were  here.  There's  something  great 


Il6      HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

out  about  Hartwell.  Have  you  heard  it  ? 
The  fellows  were  telling  me  the  other 
night  at  the  Pewter  Mug  Club.  He's 
completely  '  bowled  over '  by  some  strange 
woman's  picture  he  carries  around  with 
him,  begging  the  fellows  to  locate  the 
original.  Picked  up  the  photograph  on 
the  street  or  some  place.  You  know 
Hartwell's  such  a  close-mouther  that  every- 
body is  full  of  this  '  corker '  on  him.  I've 
put  the  story  down  for  future  reference. 
It  will  *  go '  as  <  copy.'  " 

My  heart  seemed  to  plunge  downward, 
it  stood  so  still.  I  felt  pale,  but  managed 
to  reply,  "  Is  that  the  way  the  people  talk 
in  your  books,  Mr.  Bradley,  or  is  Rudyard 
Kipling  phraseology  coming  into  vogue  ?  " 

"I  beg  pardon,  Miss  Allston.  A  man 
catches  slang  like  the  measles.  Thanks 
for  tripping  up  my  vocabulary.  Now,  if 
I  could  only  imitate  the  language  of  my 
Hibernian  laundress,  my  ships  would  sail 
over  the  mountain.  She  lives  in  Meander 
Lane,  and  confides  in  me ;  two  facts  tell- 
ing against  her.  '  My  Lard,  sour  !  Pwhat 
'm  I  to  be  doin',  sour  ?  Me  bye,  Jimmy, 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES       1 1/ 

he  wor  took  to  the  ashpital,  sour,  —  the 
ashpital,  —  and  beloiks  thim  lazy  thramps 
o'  doctors  il  kilt  him  sure,  — they're  sure  to. 
Is  the  place  afther  bein'  named  ashpital 
for  phwat  they  turns  'em  into  ashes,  sour  ? 
Dust  to  dust — ashes  to  ashes  —  I've 
heard  it  the  marnin'  afther  the  wake, 
sour.'  She  was  in  tears,  I  was  in  —  " 

A  man  and  woman  approached  as  he 
talked.  At  that  moment  the  man  inter- 
rupted him  by  laying  a  heavy  hand  on  his 
shoulder,  saying  loudly,  "  Bradley,  my  boy, 
glad  to  see  you !  Decided  to  come  back 
to  the  land  of  the  bourgeois  after  all,  did 
you  ? "  Mr.  Bradley,  looking  surprised 
and  bored,  I  fancied,  shook  hands  with 
both  of  them  in  his  airy  way,  while  the 
woman  broke  into  a  peculiar  laugh  which 
seemed  to  be  an  affliction  of  hers,  remark- 
ing in  the  midst  of  it,  "We  are  glad  to 
find  a  sympathetic  soul  on  this  side,  Mr. 
Bradley  (fearful  laugh) ;  Mr.  Travers  and 
I  could  hardly  tear  ourselves  away  from 
Italy  (whoop).  America  is  so  bourgeois, 
so  tame,  so  PLEBEIAN!  (giggle).  Have 
you  begun  to  feel  at  home  yet  ?  We  come 


Il8       HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

back  with  some  noisy  Americans.  So 
tiresome ! " 

He  made  some  reply  I  did  not  hear 
because  Elizabeth,  deserted  by  the  com- 
poser, who  left  her  standing  alone,  had 
turned  to  me.  Mr.  Bradley  presented  to 
us,  from  sheer  compulsion,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Travers.  Elizabeth  put  up  her  lorgnette 
with  a  look  I  understood.  "  Everybody 
knows  the  Allstons,"  said  Mr.  Travers. 
"  I  guess  we  came  across  some  of  your 
relations  in  Paris.  Nice  people  for  Ameri- 
cans. My  wife  and  I  about  made  up 
our  minds  never  to  come  back  to  this 
bourgeois  country  last  summer.  A  man 
can't  be  a  gentleman  in  America.  Why, 
them  fellows  in  London  don't  go  to  busi- 
ness till  ten  o'clock,  and  close,  at  four. 
You'd  ought  to  go  to  Paris,  you  two,  if 
you  want  some  fun.  Paris  is  the  only 
place  to  live  in." 

He  continued  in  the  same  strain  for 
possibly  ten  minutes,  reiterating  that 
"we'd  ought  to  go  to  Paris,"  without 
stopping  to  find  out  whether  or  not  we 
had  ever  gone.  Meantime  that  coarse 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES      119 

laugh  would  sound  at  disagreeable  inter- 
vals close  by,  until  I  saw  Elizabeth,  with  a 
sudden  "  excuse  me,"  walk  off  and  leave 
me  with  the  untamed  American,  who 
could  see  no  good  in  his  own  country.  I 
was  too  full  of  amused  utterance  to  speak. 
Mr.  Bradley  would  twinkle  his  gay  eyes  at 
me  every  time  the  laugh  sounded,  and 
the  man 'kept  on  telling  me,  "I'd  ought 
to  go  to  Paris,"  until  some  other  people 
coming  up,  Mr.  Bradley  turned  the  couple 
over  to  the  newcomers.  "  Been  to  Paris  ?  " 
the  author  asked  as  he  turned  to  me. 
"  You'd  ought  to  go  to  Paris  !  Take  them 
with  you,  if  you  go,  and  leave  them  there. 
I  wonder  how  they  ever  got  into  this 
house.  I  never  met  them  anywhere  else 
in  town.  There's  Hartwell !  I  wonder 
if  the  maiden's  picture  reposes  in  his  left 
breast  pocket.  Let's  go  and  ask  him." 
I  objected,  and  he  remained  chatting  with 
me,  while  covertly,  out  of  the  corner  of  my 
eye,  I  noticed  Mr.  Hartwell  watching  us. 

Directly  Dorothy  brought  up  a  very 
interesting  gentleman,  a  musical  critic  with 
a  keen  wit  and  ready  tongue  smacking 


120      HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

unconsciously  of  continental  life.  He  in- 
terested me  so  completely  that  I  regretted 
the  interruption  of  a  talkative  girl,  who 
approached  us  exclaiming,  "  Now,  my  dear 
Mr.  Wendel,  you  are  not  to  escape  me 
again  to-day  !  I  did  everything  but  whistle 
to  attract  your  attention  at  the  dear  recital 
this  afternoon.  Wasn't  it  dear  ?  When 
you  'do'  the  Kneisel  Quartette  to-morrow 
night  I  wish  you  would  mention  each  man 
separately,  they  are  all  such  dears.  What 
I  want  is  to  know  if  you  will  give  the 
private  theatricals  one  of  your  stunning 
advance  notices  in  your  paper.  That 
paper  is  such  an  old  dear,  you  must  like 
to  write  for  it.  Oh !  Miss  Allston, 
Elizabeth's  cousin.  Pardon !  How-de- 
you-do  ?  I  did  not  see  you.  They  tell 
me  you  are  awfully  good  at  that  sort  of 
thing  —  theatricals,  I  mean  —  been  trained 
in  Paris,  and  all  that.  Aren't  you  going 
in  for  them,  too?  —  just  to  help  us  out? 
You  mustn't  think  we  only  go  in  for  cul- 
ture in  Boston.  They  bore  me  so  when 
I  visit  New  York  by  expecting  me  to  talk 
wisdom,  —  something  I  never  do." 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES      121 

I  excused  myself  from  them  after  a  few 
moments.  As  I  moved  away  the  clergy- 
man of  Uncle  John's  church  accosted  me. 
He  began  at  once  to  talk  about  the  theatri- 
cals the  girl  had  mentioned.  They  were 
to  be  for  some  charitable  purpose  in  which 
he  was  interested.  From  that  subject  he 
branched  off  into  a  story  of  one  of  his 
parishioners,  a  lady,  who  had  bemoaned 
for  years  her  inability  to  assist  him  as 
much  as  she  desired  with  money  in  chari- 
table work.  Finally  a  fortune  fell  to  her 
lot  and  she  ceased  giving  altogether.  He 
asked  her  why  she  had  failed  him  in  her 
plenty.  "Yes,"  she  replied,  "the  Lord 
has  bestowed  upon  me  more  money,  but  at 
the  same  time  he  has  taken  away  my  dis- 
position to  give.  How  do  you  account  for 
that  ? "  Some  very  good  music,  as  is  the 
rule  at  the  Lesters',  interrupted  his  reply,  so 
I  never  heard  how  he  answered  that  poser. 
After  the  music  I  realised  that  the  house 
was  full  of  lions  and  lionesses  all  roaring 
at  once.  In  the  company  of  lions  one 
must  be  very  long-eared  to  venture  upon 
an  individual  bray.  With  short  ears  one 


122       HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

knows  enough  to  listen  and  bow  down. 
However,  a  painter  with  a  noble  brow, 
deep,  serious  eyes,  and  long,  curling  black 
hair  talked  to  me  about  everything  else 
but  his  work  and  himself.  I  knew,  when 
I  realised  his  identity,  that  he  left  the 
talking  for  other  people  to  do.  Another 
painter  with  more  manner  than  genius, 
and  possessed  of  a  fluent  tongue  which 
dealt  out  persiflage  faster  than  I  could 
think,  did  not  leave  himself  out  of  the 
conversation  entirely.  The  woman  who 
writes  the  most  popular  magazine  stories 
of  the  day  was  there  :  a  quiet,  unassuming 
person  with  a  saintly  smile.  There  were 
poets  long  and  short  haired,  book  re- 
viewers, and  several  newspaper  editors. 
Mrs.  Bobby  Short  sailed  in  late  (she  always 
seems  like  a  graceful  ship  in  full  sail  with 
several  tugs  steaming  in  her  wake),  with 
one  of  the  first  violins  of  the  Symphony 
Orchestra,  an  English  actor,  and  a  young 
man  whose  identity  was  evidently  un- 
known. The  particular  lioness  was  an 
opera  singer  from  the  Metropolitan  Opera 
House  Company  in  New  York,  who  was  to 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES      123 

be  the  soloist  at  the  Symphony  concert  that 
week.  This  singer,  Mrs.  Short  and  her 
wake,  and  some  of  Dorothy's  friends  had 
been  dining  together  at  Mrs.  Short's  and 
came  in  with  quite  a  breeze,  very  full  of 
each  other  and  their  recent  dinner.  After 
several  attempts  I  escaped  to  a  secluded 
cosy  corner  behind  the  piano,  where  I  grate- 
fully sat'  alone  for  a  few  moments,  taking 
breath  while  criticising  Boston  in  ambush. 
But  I  had  only  a  moment  alone  in  which 
to  enjoy  this  intermission,  for  presently  I 
saw  Warren  Hartwell,  who  had  been  talk- 
ing to  the  prima  donna,  look  vacantly 
around  the  room ;  then,  upon  catching 
sight  of  me,  he  followed  to  my  retreat. 

I  saw  him  coming  and  wished  for  a  hole 
in  the  wall  behind  me.  Between  us,  as 
he  advanced,  there  passed  a  plain-looking 
couple  of  middle  age  from  whom  one 
would  have  expected  Latin  verse  at  least. 
I  shall  always  remember  how  that  woman 
looked  coyly  at  the  man,  saying  with  an 
air,  "  I'm  afraid  you're  a  butterfly  !  " 

Mr.  Hartwell  was  coming  nearer.  He 
had  written  me  a  note,  which  I  left  un- 


1 24      HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

answered.  To  his  salutation  I  barely  re- 
plied, letting  my  hand  drop  to  my  side. 
His  face  was  wide  awake  that  night. 

"  Miss  Allston,"  he  began,  bending  over 
me  as  I  sat  there,  "  I  wrote  you  a  note 
two  weeks  ago.  The  next  day  I  was  called 
to  New  York,  where  I  have  been  ever 
since  until  to-day.  I  left  orders  to  forward 
my  letters.  No  reply  came  from  you. 
Did  you  receive  my  note  ? " 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  looking  past  him. 

"  As  I  said,  a  man  untrained  at  the  pen 
cannot  put  on  paper  the  thoughts  he 
holds  highest.  I  told  you  that  I  loved 
you,  which  seemed  to  make  you  angry. 
I  wished  to  say  more.  You  deserted 
me.  I  wrote,  asking  for  an  interview 
when  I  could  say  the  rest.  You  have 
not  answered  my  note.  Am  I  to  under- 
stand—" 

"You  are  to  understand,"  I  replied, 
looking  directly  up  at  him,  "  that  outside 
of  Boston,  men  do  not  love  women  they 
do  not  respect ;  and,  not  being  a  Boston- 
ian,  I  have  nothing  to  reply  to  your 
letter." 


"HE   TOOK    US   TO    OUR   CARRIAGE. 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES      I2/ 

"What  do  you  mean  ?  Have  I  done  or 
said  anything  disrespectful?  Oh,  Mar- 
garet, do  not  —  " 

"  Hush,"  I  cautioned.  "  Here  comes 
Elizabeth.  We  are  going.  I  have  noth- 
ing to  say  to  you,  Mr.  Hartwell,  except 
that  if  you  have  a  photograph  of  me  I 
should  like  to  have  it  returned  at  once." 

"  How  did  you  know  —  ?  "  he  attempted 
to  say,  but  Elizabeth  reached  us  and  he 
took  us  to  our  carriage  almost  in  silence. 
As  he  closed  the  carriage  door  he  said, 
"Ah,  by  the  way,  Miss  Allston,  may  I 
drive  you  out  on  the  boulevard  to-morrow 
afternoon  ?  The  ground  is  just  right 
for  sleighing  even  in  town.  In  the  coun- 
try it  will  be  better." 

"Thanks,  no,"  I  replied;  "you  are  very 
kind,  but  I  have  an  engagement."  He 
closed  the  door  quickly  with  a  sudden 
good  night. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  Warren?" 
asked  Dorothy.  "  Is  he  in  a  temper  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  I  replied.  "  I  thought 
a  Boston  man  was  too  indifferent  ever  to 
lose  his  temper."  Dorothy  laughed.  "  The 


128       HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

idea !  I  believe  you  like  Boston  men 
better  than  you  pretend  to,  Madgie." 

"  I  certainly  would  not  tell  them  so  if  I 
did.  They  are  conceited  enough  already." 

"They  certainly  are  all  of  that,"  she 
admitted,  with  another  laugh.  Elizabeth 
said  nothing.  She  leaned  back  against 
the  cushions,  looking  very  tired.  About 
my  cousin  Elizabeth's  face,  there  was 
always  a  touch  of  nobility.  When  her 
lorgnette  was  not  in  use  she  might  have 
been  called  a  severely  handsome  woman, 
but  her  emotional  nature  had  become  so 
entirely  subordinated  to  her  mental  activity 
that,  even  at  her  age,  there  was  scarcely  a 
vestige  of  girlhood  remaining  in  her  face 
or  manner.  She  was  like  her  mother,  in 
that  all  expression  of  feeling  must  be  con- 
trolled first  and  last.  One  must  renew 
one's  acquaintance  with  a  typical  Boston- 
ian  at  every  fresh  encounter.  For  fear  of 
undue  intimacy  the  Puritan  nature  repels 
even  those  toward  whom  it  is  attracted. 
A  Bostonian  will  go  out  of  his  way  to  do 
you  a  favour,  and  at  the  same  time  affirm 
that  he  has  done  nothing  to  oblige  you, 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES      131 

until  one  feels  his  act  to  be  a  condescen- 
sion, —  an  impression  he  had  no  desire 
to  convey.  This  is  also  a  characteristic 
of  the  Britisher,  of  whom  the  Bostonian  is 
the  closest  descendant  characteristically  in 
the  United  States.  So  it  was  with  Aunt 
Drusilla.  She  was  a  thoroughly  good 
woman ;  the  trouble  lay  in  her  exact 
knowledge  of  how  good  she  was  and  how 
good  other  people  ought  to  be. 

The  day  following  the  evening  at  the 
Lesters'  I  went  with  her  to  attend  a  special 
meeting  of  the  woman  suffragists  at  King's 
Chapel.  My  aunt,  though  not  an  active 
public  worker  in  the  emancipation  cause, 
was  a  great  enthusiast  in  that  movement, 
never  missing  a  meeting  where  her  best 
friends  were  always  to  be  seen.  As  we 
drove  down-town  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  rep- 
rimand, "Margaret,  the  girls  tell  me  you 
have  had  some  quarrel  or  trouble  with 
Warren  Hartwell.  The  mere  thought  of 
such  a  possibility  is  displeasing  to  me. 
When  I  was  a  girl,  girls  were  too  well  bred 
to  quarrel  with  young  men,  but  nowadays 
girls  are  forward,  acting  as  though  there 


132      HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

were  no  line  drawn  between  the  sexes. 
Warren  has  been  on  intimate  terms  with 
our  family  from  his  birth,  as  were  his  peo- 
ple before  him.  I  should  regret  any  strained 
relations  brought  about  by  our  niece."  Had 
she  been  my  mother  or  my  mother's  sister 
I  should  at  once  have  opened  my  heart  to 
her,  but  no  one  could  confide  in  Aunt 
Drusilla  with  any  sense  of  relief.  Instead, 
I  avoided  the  question  by  saying,  rather 
wickedly,  I  admit,  "  Did  it  ever  occur  to 
you,  Aunt  Drusilla,  that  the  fence  between 
the  sexes,  which  you  speak  of  having  existed 
in  your  girlhood,  is  being  taken  down  by 
these  very  women  we  are  going  to  hear  talk 
this  afternoon  ? " 

"  No,  nothing  so  untrue  or  unreasonable 
could  occur  to  me,"  she  replied,  indig- 
nantly,—  forgetting  Mr.  Hartwell.  "  These 
women  are  the  nobility  of  the  land ;  they 
are  the  pioneers,  directed  by  a  ruling  hand 
to  clear  the  world  of  wrongs,  to  free  their 
sister  slaves  of  the  spirit  oppressed  for 
centuries  by  selfish  man." 

"They  may  be  all  that,"  I  replied,  "and 
still  be  responsible  for  the  new  independ- 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES      133 

ence  common  to  the  younger  generation  of 
women.  They  have  given  a  push  to  liberty 
of  thought  which  is  invariably  followed  by 
liberty  of  action.  7  do  not  condemn  them 
for  what  they  have  done ;  I  honour  them,  but 
I  only  suggested  that  you  are  inconsistent 
in  blaming  the  girls  for  being  what  their 
mothers  are  making  them.  Let  them  vote 
by  all  means,  I  say,  then  take  the  conse- 
quences." 

"  You  show  your  ignorance  by  laying  at 
our  door  any  advocacy  of  liberty  between 
sexes,"  she  replied.  "Our  war-cry  is  'the 
individual  right : '  give  every  woman  her 
individual  rights  as  a  human  being ;  give 
her  elevation  of  mind ;  throw  light  upon 
her  intelligence  and  she  will  raise  the  stand- 
ards of  the  world  and  pull  men  up  after 
her." 

"  But,  my  dear  aunt,  the  freedom  of  the 
single  individual  means  the  freedom  of  all 
individuals.  The  woman  does  not  live 
her  life  isolated  with  her  freedom  from 
the  rest  of  the  world.  Freedom  is  a  con- 
dition existing  between  individuals.  If 
she  lived  alone  she  would  of  necessity  be 


134       HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

tree  because  there  would  be  no  one  to 
interfere  with  her  actions." 

"  You  are  entirely  mistaken ;  your  prem- 
ises are  all  wrong.  Political  rights  are 
distinct  and  apart  from  the  right  to  burn 
your  neighbour's  house  down  if  you  are  so 
inclined.  I  fear,  Margaret,  you  have  im- 
bibed anarchistic  views  in  Paris  or  among 
the  kind  of  Bostonians  you  meet  at  Miss 
Thurlston's." 

The  distinctive  feature  of  a  woman's 
argument  is  the  feminine  knowledge  of  how 
to  tack.  If  the  wind  blows  too  hard  from 
one  quarter  she  veers,  then  asserts  that  she 
was  stronger  than  the  wind.  Aunt  Drusilla 
had  the  art  of  tacking  to  perfection.  I 
dropped  the  subject.  As  we  went  into 
King's  Chapel  she  said,  firmly,  "  I  hope 
you  understand,  Margaret,  that  what  I 
said  about  Warren  Hartwell  amounts 
to  a  request  from  your  hostess  and 
aunt." 

"  Certainly  I  understand,  Aunt  Dru- 
silla," and  to  myself  I  echoed,  "Warren 
Hartwell  is  the  best-connected  young  man 
in  Boston." 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES      137 

When  of  a  Sunday  afternoon  I  had  gone 
to  King's  Chapel  to  vesper  services,  the 
quaint  church  with  its  high-backed  box-pews 
cushioned  in  red  stuff,  its  old-English  gal- 
lery, and  high  pulpit  reached  by  winding 
stairs,  gave  me  a  sense  of  peace  and  spiri- 
tual rest.  Although  the  church  doctrines 
are  now  Unitarian,  the  form  of  worship  is 
almost  identical  with  the  old  ritual  used 
before  the  Trinitarian  belief  was  exchanged 
for  the  newer  faith.  The  combination  lends 
a  humanitarian  spirit  to  the  form  of  worship 
and  to  the  wise,  simple  words  of  the  good 
man  who  preaches  there.  I  have  sat  in  my 
high-backed  pew  overlooking  the  ancient 
burying-ground  and  wondered  what  the  hu- 
man relics  lying  beneath  those  headstones 
would  think  of  the  violin  solo  floating  out 
upon  the  quiet  air  from  the  choir-loft  above 
my  head,  could  their  senses  quicken  again 
for  a  moment. 

Those  dead  were  probably  not  imbued 
with  the  Calvinistic  spirit  of  their  doctrinal 
opponents  lying  now  in  the  Old  Granary 
burying-ground  of  the  Park  Street  Church 
across  the  street  a  block  away ;  but  still  I 


138      HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

think  they  would  be  surprised  at  the  advance 
of  ideas  they  must  meet  with  if  they  ever 
look  in  at  those  windows.  How  would  one 
of  the  grand  dames  lying  out  there  take  the 
meeting  we  attended  that  day  ?  I  fancy 
she  would  shudder  at  some  of  the  opinions 
advanced,  provided  she  understood  them  in 
the  least.  But  there  was  nothing  at  which 
a  modern  mind  could  shudder  in  the  expres- 
sions of  those  women.  First  of  all,  they 
were  sincere, —  an  element  in  their  work  or 
any  one's  work  which  cannot  be  too  highly 
valued.  Not  among  that  entire  assemblage 
did  I  note  a  face  spotted  with  the  stains  of 
the  flesh.  They  were  distinctly  high,  if  fre- 
quently narrow-minded,  women.  Even  if, 
as  some  do  hold,  the  emancipationists  are 
mistaken  in  their  cause,  their  enthusiasm 
must  either  be  ennobling  or  a  high  class  of 
women  comprehend  the  suffrage  idea.  They 
were  mostly  middle-aged  or  elderly  women 
of  unworldly  appearance  as  to  dress  ;  in  fact, 
one  could  label  the  assembly  as  a  meet- 
ing of  cultivated,  conscientious,  corsetless 
women.  Without  exception  they  spoke  ably 
and  authoritatively,  even  when  ingenuity 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES       139 

was  required  to  disguise  their  arguments  as 
flimsy  and  unstable. 

The  most  convincing  argument  I  ever 
heard  upon  the  question  of  women's  politi- 
cal rights  was  made  by  a  man,  and  it  was 
convincing  because,  instead  of  dwelling 
upon  the  oppression  and  slavery  to  his  sex, 
which  the  majority  of  women  will  not  admit 
to  be  their  position,  he  brought  out  the  one 
argument,  incapable  of  refutation,  that  if  a 
woman  of  intelligence  holds  property  she 
has  at  least  as  much  right  to  say  how  it 
shall  be  disposed  of  by  State  or  municipal 
law  as  has  some  ignorant  foreigner  with  not 
a  penny  nor  an  inch  of  ground  to  his  name. 
If  the  suffragists  would  dwell  upon  a  few 
such  practical,  salient  points  they  might 
arouse  a  widespread  enthusiasm  among 
women,  without  which  their  cause  will  never 
succeed.  Aunt  Drusilla  could  not  induce 
even  her  own  daughters  to  attend  these 
meetings,  and  out  of  a  dozen  women  I  heard 
her  invite  for  that  particular  occasion,  I 
alone  accepted  her  invitation ;  confessedly, 
out  of  curiosity. 

I  had  never  before  seen  Aunt  Drusilla 


I4O      HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

unbend  as  she  did  at  the  close  of  the  meet- 
ing, mingling  among  the  sisters  of  the  faith. 
Every  one  congratulated  every  one  else, 
with  the  exclamation,  "  How  interesting  the 
meeting  has  been  to-day  !  Unusually  so,  I 
think.  The  cause  progresses ;  I  hope  I 
may  live  to  see  the  day  of  our  great  success. 
It  is  bound  to  come !  " 

I  left  my  aunt  in  this  hopeful  frame  of 
mind  and  walked  home  for  the  sake  of  exer- 
cise. In  my  room  I  found  awaiting  me  my 
long-lost  photograph,  with  a  note  from  Mr. 
Hartwell  in  which  he  said : 

"  MY  DEAR  Miss  ALLSTON  :  —  Kindly  permit 
me  to  return  this  photograph  of  you  which  I  found 
last  fall  in  a  book  in  Bates  Hall  at  the  Public  Li- 
brary. If  you  condemn  me  for  keeping  it  after 
I  recognised  the  original,  my  only  excuse  is  to  be 
found  in  the  hope  I  had  of  securing  your  ultimate 
permission  to  retain  it  among  my  choice  posses- 
sions. 

"  This  hope  you  have  distinctly  shown  me  to  be 
futile,  and  I  return  the  photograph  with  many 
apologies  for  not  having  done  so  earlier.  I  am 
leaving  town  to-day,  so  will  bid  you  good-bye  now, 
as  you  have  given  me  to  understand  that  my 
presence  is  obnoxious  to  you.  I  regret  having 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES      141 

heightened  your  already  poor  opinion  of  my  fellow 
citizens,  because  I  had  learned  to  value  that 
opinion. 

"  Believe  me  most  sincerely  yours, 

"  WARREN  HARTWELL." 

Something  unusual  happened  to  me  after 
reading  that  letter.  I  tore  my  photograph 
in  two,  threw  it  on  the  grate  fire  and  cried 
over  the  letter.  If  he  had  waited  until  he 
was  punished  enough  I  should  have  tried  to 
forgive  him.  Men  are  so  obtuse,  especially 
Boston  men.  Could  he  have  left  town  with- 
out coming  to  the  house  at  all  ?  The  family 
would  never  forgive  me.  How  unfortunate ! 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  month  of  February  passed,  dupli- 
cating with  variations  the  gay  and 
serious  entertainments  I  have  already  de- 
scribed, but  without  a  word  from  Warren 
Hartwell.  He  had  called  upon  the  family 
that  afternoon  while  I  was  at  the  woman's 
suffrage  meeting,  but  finding  no  one  at 
home,  he  left  his  card  for  Aunt  Drusilla, 
with  the  word  "good-bye  "  written  in  one 
corner.  No  one  in  town  seemed  to  know 
where  he  had  gone,  but  you  may  be  sure 
there  were  rumours  of  infinite  variety. 

One  cold,  blustering  night  in  early  March, 
after  a  day  of  winds  which  made  one  feel 
like  a  centripetal  force  drawing  the  blasts 
of  the  earth  toward  a  common  and  unfor- 
tunate centre,  we  all  sat  around  the  library 
open  fire,  where  the  logs  crackled  spitefully 
at  every  new  blast  from  across  the  river. 
142 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES      143 

Uncle  John  sat  by,  reading  the  Transcript. 
Dorothy  had  been  dining  with  us  previous 
to  attending  a  rehearsal  of  the  private 
theatricals  to  be  given  after  Easter  and  in 
which  she  was  to  take  a  minor  part.  Fred 
was  in  New  York.  Elizabeth,  looking  over 
at  her  sister,  asked,  "  What  is  all  this  talk  I 
hear  about  Warren  ?  Does  Fred  know  any- 
thing ? " 

"  He  has  probably  heard  what  you  have. 
He  knows  nothing." 

Elizabeth  continued,  "  A  woman  came  up 
to  me  this  afternoon  at  the  loan  exhibition 
at  the  Grundmann  studios  and  asked  me  if 
I  knew  the  truth  about  Warren  Hartwell. 
She  went  on  to  say  that  everybody  said  he 
had  followed  out  West  a  vaudeville  actress 
whose  picture  he  carries  around  with  him 
and  shows  everywhere,  and  she  actually 
asked  me  if  it  were  true." 

"The  idear!"  broke  in  Aunt  Drusilla. 
c<  How  scandalous  !  How  dare  they  say  such 
a  thing  about  a  Hartwell !  I  hope  you  told 
her  the  truth,  Elizabeth." 

"  I  do  not  know  the  truth,  mother.  I 
told  her  I  knew  that  Warren  was  above  any 


144       HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

such  liaison,  but  I  have  heard  different 
versions  of  that  picture  story  all  winter." 

Dorothy  looked  at  me  and  my  eyes  fell. 

"  Don't  believe  one  word  they  say,  Eliza- 
beth," Dorothy  said,  quickly.  "  Surely  you 
don't  believe  everything  you  hear.  Young 
men  are  always  being  talked  about,  and  — 

"Stop,  Dorothy,"  I  said.  "Give  some 
better  excuse  than  that  for  him  or  none  at 
all." 

They  all  looked,  at  me,  except  Uncle  John, 
who  was  immersed  in  his  paper.  "  If  you 
wish  to  know  the  truth  about  the  photo- 
graph, I  can  give  it  to  you,"  I  continued, 
feeling  like  an  army  recruit  in  his  first 
battle.  "  Mr.  Hartwell  has  been  carrying 
about  and  showing  at  the  club  a  photograph 
of  me,  which  he  found  in  a  library  book 
where  I  left  it." 

"The  idear!"  exclaimed  Aunt  Drusilla. 
"John,  do  you  hear  that  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  dear,"  uncle  responded,  ab- 
sently, reading  on. 

Then  Dorothy  and  I  between  us  went 
into  details,  telling  what  we  thought  we 
knew.  I  explained  that  Mr.  Hartwell  had 


HER   BOSTON  EXPERIENCES       145 

returned  to  me  the  object  under  discussion 
the  day  he  left  town.  Elizabeth  said,  quietly, 
"  I  do  not  believe  Warren  showed  your 
photograph  at  the  club,  Margaret.  Warren 
has  always  been  a  gentleman." 

Dorothy  insisted  that  Fred  had  heard  all 
about  when  and  how  he  did  it,  but  some 
way  or  another  I  could  not  corroborate  her 
belief  by  my  own  evidence.  I  was  forced 
into  an  explanation,  but  I  could  not  bring 
myself  to  dye  the  villain  blacker  than  he 
was  already  painted.  In  the  midst  of  the 
discussion  Uncle  John  dropped  his  paper 
and  in  an  awed  voice  exclaimed,  "Louise 
French  is  dead  !  " 

"  Dead  !  "  the  three  women  echoed. 

"  Yes,  here  is  the  notice  :  *  French. —  At 
Aiken,  March  5,  Louise  Hart  well  French,, 
wife  of  Samuel  L.  French.  Funeral  ser- 
vices to  be  held  at  her  late  residence,  Marl- 
borough  Street,  at  1 1  A.  M.,  March  9.'  Then 
here  is  a  personal  notice  saying  she  died  sud- 
denly, attended  by  her  husband  and  brother, 
who  have  been  with  her  for  some  time  past 
and  who  will  accompany  the  remains  home." 

While  my  relatives,  each  in  her  different 


146       HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

way,  expressed  her  grief  for  a  lifelong 
friend,  my  mind  dwelt  upon  that  friend's 
brother.  He  had  been  at  Aiken  with  his 
invalid  sister  while  the  town  was  ringing 
with  gossip  concerning  his  movements. 
Why  could  not  the  other  reports  be  untrue, 
too  ?  But  if  they  were,  how  did  Mr.  Bradley 
know  he  possessed  a  photograph  and  the 
men  at  the  club  know  it  was  my  likeness, 
unless  he  had  shown  it  ?  No  ;  there  was  a 
clear  case  against  him,  and  I  felt  my  teeth 
close  hard  together  even  while  I  pitied  him 
in  his  grief  for  his  only  sister. 

The  death  of  Mrs.  French  brought  about 
a  cessation  of  gaieties,  including  even  the 
minor  diversions  of  the  Lenten  season,  not 
only  among  the  members  of  our  own  house- 
hold, but  also  among  several  families  all  of 
whom  had  been  friends  of  the  Hartwells 
personally  or  ancestrally  since  the  Revolu- 
tion at  the  latest.  Bostonians  have  two 
particular  occasions  when  they  are  demon- 
strative,—  in  case  of  death,  or  indefinite 
departure.  This  state  lasted  for  a  week  or 
two,  and  was  only  broken  by  the  grand 
opera  season. 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES       147 

There  is  no  one  feature  of  Boston  more 
astonishing,  considering  the  claims  the  city 
lays  to  musical  enlightenment,  than  the  kind 
of  building  in  which  Bostonians,  at  that 
time,  listened  to  grand  opera  during  the  few 
weeks  of  the  year  when  the  New  York  com- 
pany visited  Boston. 

Opera  was  given  in  a  mammoth  barn 
called  Mechanics'  Building,  built  for  food 
fairs,  horse  shows,  and  other  like  diversions. 
Its  seating  capacity  is  large,  its  hearing 
capacity  infinitely  small.  At  the  back  of 
the  galleries  the  singers  resembled  puppets 
moving  about  in  pantomime.  Even  the 
De  Reszkes  and  Plangon,  with  their  great 
volume  of  vocal  tone,  could  scarcely  be 
heard  in  many  parts  of  the  house.  The 
seats  are  rudely  made  of  wood,  and  are  on 
a  par  as  to  comfort  with  the  reserve  at  a 
circus.  The  draughts  come  and  go  at  will, 
consequently  the  women  hesitated  to  wear 
evening  costumes.  However,  a  sprinkling 
of  such  attire  was  always  to  be  found 
amidst  the  otherwise  plainly  dressed  audi- 
ence. The  victims  amiably,  year  after  year, 
paid  fabulous  prices  for  these  disagreeable 


148      HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

places  ;  which  fact  of  itself  argues  for  their 
appreciation  of  opera  as  much  as  their  ab- 
surd submission  to  conditions  which  could 
easily  be  remedied,  argues  against  it.  At 
last  the  prevailing  rebellion  against  such 
operatic  accommodations  took  form  and 
were  met  by  a  transference  of  the  annual 
week  of  opera  to  a  large  theatre,  where  the 
price  of  admittance  was  raised  far  beyond 
the  limit  of  the  average  pocketbook. 

Between  acts  we  would  wrap  up  in  opera 
cloaks  to  avoid  pneumonia,  and  promenade 
barren,  black,  dirty  corridors  for  a  bit  of 
display  under  the  name  of  sociability.  Of 
course,  everybody  with  connections  was 
there,  not  to  speak  of  the  several  thousand 
people  besides,  who  in  reality  supported  the 
enterprise  by  crowding  to  hear  popular 
opera  favourites,  regardless  of  the  merits  of 
the  opera  or  performance.  Boston  may 
move  on  a  highly  discriminating  plane 
orchestrally  ;  she  certainly  does  not  operati- 
cally. 

Dorothy's  friends  rivalled  each  other  in 
entertaining  the  expensive  vocalists, —  at 
least,  they  entertained  those  who  did  not 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES      149 

decline  all  invitations,  as  was  the  case  with 
the  superlatively  great  artists  Jean  and 
Edward  De  Reszke  and  Calve,  whose  fame 
is  built  on  a  firmer  rock  than  society  favour. 
Frances  Thurlston  knew  several  of  the 
singers  well,  personally  ;  an  acquaintance 
dating  back  some  ten  years  in  Paris.  I 
enjoyed  meeting  them  quietly  at  her  apart- 
ment much  more  than  at  a  crowded  "  after- 
noon," or  even  at  a  dinner.  With  Frances 
they  were  good  comrades,  not  roaring  lions  ; 
but  with  only  a  few  exceptions,  opera  singers 
are  more  interesting  on  the  stage  than  in  a 
social  capacity. 

After  several  weeks  Mr.  Hartwell  re- 
sumed his  familiar  visits  at  Uncle  John's. 
My  relatives  had  apparently  forgotten  the 
incident  of  the  picture,  or  chose  to  ignore 
it  out  of  respect  for  Warren's  bereavement. 

He  was  much  changed.  He  talked  but 
little  to  any  one,  scarcely  at  all  to  me.  I 
avoided  him  as  much  as  possible.  The 
author,  Mr.  Bradley,  was  in  close  attend- 
ance upon  me  by  that  time.  He  said  he 
had  undertaken  to  teach  me  Bostonese. 
Although  himself  a  Bostonian  of  impeccable 


I5O       HER   BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

connections,  he  possessed  the  faculty  of 
laughing  at  himself  and  of  enjoying  more 
than  one  kind  of  life.  He  insisted  that 
Frances  Thurlston  furnished  him  more  ma- 
terial than  any  one  other  person  he  had  ever 
known.  She  almost  liked  him.  They  were 
like  two  men  together.  He  was  always 
making  a  note  of  her  expressions.  He  con- 
ducted Frances  and  me  all  about  the  city, 
making  himself  invaluable  to  us  by  his 
actual  knowledge  and  humourous  style  of 
narrative.  It  seems  a  pity  he  does  not  put 
more  of  himself  into  his  books,  and  less  of 
literary  characters. 

Easter  came  late  that  year,  bringing  a  lull 
in  the  winds  and  many  attractive  symptoms 
of  spring.  One  place  of  interest  to  which 
Mr.  Bradley  introduced  us,  merely  as  a 
glimpse  of  Boston  at  one  point,  not  for  any 
particular  merit  the  exhibit  displayed  that 
year  or  any  year,  was  the  annual  exhibition 
of  pictures  at  the  Art  Club.  Mr.  Bradley 
insisted  that  his  wit  was  only  an  editorial 
revision  of  the  conversations  he  overheard 
at  this  exhibition.  "  Of  course,  you  know," 
said  he,  "  nobody  but  a  few  of  the  girl  stu- 


HER   BOSTON  EXPERIENCES       1 5  I 

dents  at  the  Art  Museum  come  to  look  at 
the  pictures." 

"What  do  the  rest  come  for?"  I  in- 
quired, while  Frances,  who  had  left  us  sit- 
ting on  one  of  the  benches  located  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  walked  up  very  close 
to  a  picture,  looked  at  it  keenly  through 
squinted  eyelids,  then  slowly  stepped  back- 
ward in  approved  fashion,  gradually  gaining 
a  proper  distance  and  in  so  doing  upset  a 
little  man  who  was  making  funnels  of  his 
hands  for  the  purpose  of  artistic  focus. 
"  They  come  to  look  at  each  other, —  Bos- 
tonians  are  so  picturesque,  you  know.  Ten 
thousand  blisters !  "  laughed  Mr.  Bradley. 
"  She's  upset  Foller  !  He  was  focussing 
the  vanishing-point !  She  broke  into  the 
middle  ground  !  He'd  forgive  her  for  libel 
or  theft,  but  never  for  that !  " 

"  Who  is  the  man  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Foller!  Don't  you  know  him  ?  There's 
one  of  his  prize  things  over  there.  Got 
three  thousand  for  it  several  years  ago. 
Hasn't  made  a  penny  since." 

As  we  sat  there  I  began  to  believe  what 
he  said  was  true.  Most  of  the  people 


152      HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

glanced  cursorily  at  the  pictures,  and,  after 
one  quick  tour  about  the  rooms,  relapsed 
into  chatter.  The  art  exhibition,  at  night, 
anyway,  seemed  to  be  but  a  social  gathering 
decorated  by  the  pictures  on  the  walls. 
What  else  can  be  expected  when  so  little 
of  vital  interest  is  exhibited  ?  At  the  Art 
Museum  one  can  see  good  pictures,  also  at 
the  yearly  loan  exhibit,  where  there  are  col- 
lected the  best  to  be  found  among  the 
private  possessions  of  the  dilettante  collect- 
ors ;  but  an  Art  Club  exhibition  is,  as  a 
rule,  far  below  the  average  as  a  whole,  and 
there  seems  to  be  no  satisfactory  explana- 
tion of  the  fact. 

In  the  Art  Museum  there  are  good 
pictures,  casts,  marbles,  tapestries,  laces, 
and  many  other  beautiful  objects  suffi- 
cient to  claim  one's  attention  indefinitely ; 
but  having  seen  quantities  of  much  the 
same  thing  before,  I  was  more  interested 
in  watching  the  girl  students  of  the  school 
connected  with  the  Museum  pour  out  on  to 
the  streets,  conspicuous  in  working  blouses 
and  great  gingham  aprons  daubed  liberally 
with  impressionist  colours,  at  the  sound 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES       155 

of  a  passing  band.  They  chattered  and 
munched  candy  or  cakes  from  the  con- 
fectioner's hard  by,  giggling  and  frisking 
about  in  true  student  ways ;  then  like 
a  flock  of  sheep  they  scurried  back  to 
work.  And  even  more  was  I  interested 
in  the  great  number  of  Italians  who  con- 
gregate in  this  building  of  a  Sunday  after- 
noon, when  there  is  no  admission  fee. 
Among  the  miscellaneous  crowd  collected 
there  on  Sunday  these  Italian  women, 
some  in  gay  garments,  others  in  plain 
dark  clothes,  invariably  brightened  by  a 
brilliant  handkerchief  or  scarf  about  the 
neck  or  draped  on  the  head,  lend  bright 
patches  of  colour  to  the  throng.  They 
seldom  wear  hats,  even  in  cold  weather. 
The  men  are  less  picturesque  in  attire, 
but  are  equally  so  in  face  and  gesture. 
Mr.  Bradley  accounted  for  their  choice 
of  that  particular  place  for  Sunday  rendez- 
vous by  their  native  taste  for  the  best 
expression  of  art  obtainable  without  cost. 
He  took  us  over  the  North  End,  a  part 
of  which  is  now  relegated  to  these  Italians. 
The  most  picturesque  of  them  make  a 


156      HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

living  by  grinding  orchestrions  and  rattling 
tambourines  on  the  streets  of  new  Boston. 
The  dagos  sell  bananas  and  work  as  day 
labourers.  Over  there  we  investigates 
North  Square,  which  is  said  to  have  more 
historical  associations  than  any  other  spot 
in  America.  Until  within  a  half-century 
it  was  a  fashionable  centre,  but  now  the 
Paul  Revere  house  is  the  most  famous 
landmark  within  its  precincts,  carrying  us 
back  in  thought  to  1775.  Near  it  stands 
the  old  Hichborn  house,  of  much  later 
date.  The  site  of  the  first  Old  North 
Church,  where  the  three  Mathers  preached, 
is  adjacent.  Sir  Henry  Frankland,  who 
gained  notoriety  by  marrying  Agnes  Sur- 
riage,  a  servant  at  a  Marblehead  inn,  also 
resided  on  this  square,  next  door  to 
"  Stingy  Tommy "  Hutchinson,  who  was 
governor  as  early  as  1771.  Along  there 
Major  Pit  cairn  had  his  headquarters  dur- 
ing the  Revolutionary  War,  not  far  from 
where  the  first  public  markets  were  lo- 
cated, adjacent  to  a  watch-house,  fire- 
engine  station,  and  town  pump. 

When  one  can  shut  one's  eyes  to  the 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES      159 

present  condition  of  North  Square,  permit- 
ting these  characters,  with  their  signifi- 
cance, to  file  through  one's  brain,  the 
North  End  is  well  worth  visiting;  but 
when  one  walks  up  Salem  Street  with 
a  strong  desire  to  sing  aloud,  "  My  name 
is  Solomon  Levi,  I  live  on  Salem  Street," 
owing  to  the  uninterrupted  Semitic  charac- 
ter of  the  shops  and  their  contents,  then 
comes  upon  Christ  Church,  in  whose 
belfry  Robert  Newman,  its  sexton,  hung 
the  now  celebrated  signal-lights,  standing 
in  its  original  aspect  except  for  that  signal- 
light  steeple  long  ago  blown  down  and 
replaced  by  one  of  Bulfmch's  design,  the 
incongruity  is  historically  bewildering  and 
disturbing.  The  neighbourhood  is  incon- 
sistent. One  wishes  American  history  were 
commemorated  by  fenced-off  localities  into 
which  no  foreign  elements  could  penetrate 
and  discolour. 

Then  we  saw  the  narrowest  street  in 
Boston,  which  is  saying  as  little  as  possible 
for  its  width.  It  is  called  Salutation,  and 
is  too  narrow  to  admit  of  a  sidewalk.  The 
trite  complaint  of  tourists  that  Boston 


160      HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

streets  are  bewildering  in  their  turns  and 
twists  is  a  one-sided  view  of  the  city, 
a  view  confined  to  the  old  North  End  and 
the  commercial  portions  of  the  newer  city. 
The  Back  Bay  and  South  End  are  stereo- 
typed enough  in  regularity  to  suit  any  taste 
for  parallel  lines.  Mr.  Bradley  related  how 
his  grandfather  told  him,  as  a  child,  about 
the  life  at  the  Red  Lion,  The  King's  Head, 
and  Ship  Tavern,  and  about  travelling  to 
Troy,  New  York,  in  a  stage,  —  the  longest 
trip  the  old  gentleman  had  ever  taken. 
"  But  the  old  boy  thought  he  knew  the 
world,"  said  his  grandson,  who  was,  with- 
out doubt,  as  "well  connected"  as  any 
Bostonian  with  whom  I  was  acquainted, 
and  the  only  one  who  spoke  of  his  ancestry 
as  if  it  did  not  amount  to  much.  But  he 
had  lived  most  of  his  life  in  Europe.  How- 
ever, his  intimate  personal  relation  to  the 
past  brought  those  days  close  to  us  as  we 
strayed  with  him  about  the  North  End. 
He  insisted  that  only  once  was  he  con- 
cerned about  his  ancestry,  and  that  was 
when  he  walked  through  the  Common 
at  the  time  the  earth  of  the  old  burying- 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES      l6l 

ground  there  was  being  broken  up  for 
the  purpose  of  running  the  subway  under- 
neath. "I  believe  I  caught  a  chill  at  the 
tomb  of  some  of  my  ancestors.  As  I  stood 
talking  to  the  men  about  some  relics  they 
had  found,  I  suddenly  remembered  that  this 
was  the  tomb  of  some  of  my  maternal  con- 
nections way  back,  and  that  chill  came  on," 
he  said,  without  much  evidence  of  the  ague. 

I  do  not  remember  any  man  whom  I 
liked  better  than  I  did  John  Bradley. 
Everybody  liked  him.  He  said  people 
always  liked  him  too  much  to  love  him, 
especially  women. 

This  must  have  been  my  case,  because 
I  wished  several  times  I  could  love  him. 
John  Bradley  had  not  a  particle  of  the 
Boston  man's  pose.  He  never  took  him- 
self too  seriously.  He  looked  at  one  when 
one  was  speaking  quite  as  though  he  were 
gaining  information  or  pleasure ;  generally 
the  latter.  Yes,  John  Bradley  would  be  an 
interesting  husband  for  some  one. 

On  Easter  Sunday  I  started  out  alone 
on  foot,  intending  to  call  for  Frances,  as 
we  had  arranged  to  attend  service  to- 


1 62      HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

gether.  The  day  was  moist  and  warm. 
I  welcomed  spring  with  every  breath. 
Along  Beacon  Street,  in  the  tiny  grass 
plots  belonging  to  each  house,  the  crocuses 
were  nodding  their  heads  in  tune  with  the 
spring  melodies  in  the  air. 

All  about  the  bold  equestrian  statue 
of  Washington  at  the  Arlington  Street 
entrance  to  the  Public  Gardens  the  hya- 
cinths bloomed  profusely,  scenting  the  air 
deliciously.  I  made  a  little  detour  for  the 
sake  of  the  loveliness  all  about,  walking 
slowly  toward  the  bridged  lake,  where  al- 
ready the  swan-boats  had  begun  to  ply 
for  the  benefit  of  the  happy  children. 
Alone,  on  a  bench  under  a  budding  tree, 
sat  a  man  whose  back  I  recognised. 

He  faced  the  lake,  and  did  not  see  me ; 
but  he  looked  so  lonely,  sitting  there  with 
his  head  slightly  bowed,  that  even  his  top 
hat  with  its  band  of  mourning  and  his 
immaculate  frock  coat  could  not  stiffen  the 
relaxed,  forsaken  look  about  him.  I  might 
easily  have  turned  back,  but  my  weak  heart 
proved  stronger  than  my  will.  I  wore  fas- 
tened to  my  jacket  a  bunch  of  lilies-of-the- 


I    .        .    DROPPED    THE   LILIES    INTO   ONE   OF    HIS    HANDS.' 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES      165 

valley.  Unfastening  them,  I  slowly  walked 
past  him  and  dropped  the  lilies  into  one  of 
his  hands,  which  lay  open,  palm  up,  on  his 
knee.  My  honest  intention  was  to  pass  on 
without  a  word,  but  the  tone  of  his  "  Mar- 
garet !  "  held  me.  We  looked  at  each  other 
silently  for  a  moment,  then  I  smiled : 
whereupon  rising  and  removing  his  hat,  he 
asked,  "  Did  you  intend  these  for  me  or  for 
some  tramp  upon  whom  you  took  pity  ?  " 

"I  knew  your  back,"  I  replied.  "You 
looked  so  lonely  —  "I  hesitated. 

"  Oh,  it  was  pity,  then,  in  any  case  ? " 
he  said.  "Well,  I  am  lonely,  —  there  is 
no  use  to  deny  it." 

Avoiding  the  subject,  I  said,  "  I  had  no 
idea  a  Bostonian  with  connections  would 
do  anything  so  plebeian  as  to  sit  in  the 
Public  Gardens  on  a  bench." 

"You  seem  to  forget  that  Bostonians 
are  human  beings,  after  all ;  that  they 
have  hearts  as  well  as  connections,  —  hearts 
not  easily  stirred,  but  enduring  in  affection." 

I  tried  to  swallow  my  own  heart  at  that 
moment :  it  leaped  high  ;  then,  impetuously, 
I  stepped  nearer  to  him  and  held  out  my 


1 66       HER   BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

hand.  "  Come  and  go  to  church  with  Miss 
Thurlston  and  me,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  it  ?    Do  you  want  me  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  this  is  a  day  on  which  to  for- 
give. I  can't  leave  you  sitting  there  alone." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  pity  is  better  than 
nothing,"  he  said,  moving  along  by  my 
side.  "  I  will  go.  I  cannot  yet  admit 
that  I  ever  committed  any  great  breach  of 
etiquette  toward  you ;  but  you  seem  to 
think  I  did,  so  even  momentary  forgive- 
ness is  a  good  deal,  coming  from  you." 

"Don't  let  us  talk  about  it  any  more, 
Mr.  Hartwell,"  I  said.  "  Smell  the  flowers, 
listen  to  the  chimes,  and  thank  God  for  all 
we  have  and  are.  When  I  think  of  my 
own  mistakes  I  can  afford  to  forgive  for  at 
least  one  day,  when  it  is  a  day  like  this." 

"Could  you  forgive  that  man  who  let 
you  tie  your  own  shoe  string  on  his  step  ?  " 
inquired  he,  with  the  gayest  look  I  had 
seen  on  his  face  since  Christmas. 

"  Yes,  even  that  man,  provided  he  would 
do  penance  by  tying  it  now,"  I  replied, 
without  any  particular  thought. 

"  Permit  me,"  he  replied,  and  before  I 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES      169 

knew  what  he  was  doing,  down  he  went 
on  one  knee  on  the  grass  beside  the  bench 
and  was  tying  my  shoe-string,  which  was 
dragging.  A  well-connected  Bostonian  on 
one  knee,  Easter  morning,  in  the  Public 
Gardens  !  "  What  if  some  one  should  see 
us  ?  "  I  gasped. 

"  Why  should  you  care  ? "  he  replied,  giv- 
ing the  bows  an  extra  pull  before  he  stood 
up.  "You  are  not  a  Bostonian." 

"  Well,  do  you  mean  to  say  you  are  the 
man  who  laughed  at  me  that  day  in  the 
rain  ? " 

"  What  else  could  a  man  do  ?  That  was 
my  sister's  house.  The  day  I  landed  I 
was  taken  with  the  most  ridiculous  dis- 
ease a  grown  man  could  have,  —  measles. 
I  caught  them  from  my  sister's  children.  I 
was  shut  up  for  several  weeks  at  her  house ; 
you  know  I  crossed  earlier  than  I  intended. 
That  rainy  day  I  was  getting  fierce  with 
boredom.  While  roaming  about  the  house 
I  chanced  into  the  drawing-room  and  looked 
out  to  examine  the  weather.  I  arrived  on 
the  scene  just  in  time  to  see  a  woman  try- 
ing to  tie  her  boot  lace.  You  looked  as 


I/O      HER   BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

though  you  were  swearing.  Were  you? 
Then  you  glanced  up  at  me,  and  what  dis- 
dain your  face  took  on  !  With  that  one  blast 
of  scorn  you  turned  away  and  stumbled  on, 
believing,  I  suppose,  that  I  had  been  a 
witness  of  the  entire  performance.  Did 
I  laugh  ?  How  could  a  man  help  it  ?  I 
never  forgot  your  face,  anyway." 

"And  you  did  not  tell  me  in  all  these 
months ! "  I  asked,  laughing  in  spite  of 
myself  at  the  remembrance. 

"That  is  the  way  Bostonians  leave  an 
impression  of  great  knowledge.  They  tell 
enough  and  intimate  the  rest,  as  I  have 
done,  thus  working  on  the  imagination  of 
the  listener  with  great  effect.  Don't  you 
think  ?  Then,  too,  when  a  woman  has  a 
poor  opinion  of  a  man  to  begin  on,  he  is  not 
likely  to  tell  the  worst  until  he  finds  the 
case  hopeless.  I  — 

"Here,  turn  to  the  right,  up  Boylston 
Street,"  I  interrupted.  "  Have  you  forgot- 
ten the  way  ? " 

"  No,  but  a  glimpse  of  happiness  some- 
times obscures  a  man's  vision.  Where  did 
you  say  we  were  going  ? " 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES      171 

"  To  join  Miss  Thurlston,  then  to 
church." 

"  And  pick  up  Bradley  on  the  way  ? "  he 
asked,  with  affected  indifference. 

"Mr.  Bradley  is  out  of  town,"  I  said, 
looking  away  from  him. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  that.  Do  you  know, 
Miss  Allston,  I  started  through  the  Garden 
this  morning  in  rather  a  desperate  mood. 
The  taste  of  spring  in  the  air,  as  I  breathed 
it,  enticed  me  into  sitting  down  among  the 
flowers.  I  was  thinking,  when  you  came 
up,  what  a  poor  use  of  the  world's  beauty 
we  make  —  at  least,  those  of  us  who  live 
cooped  up  amidst  brick  and  mortar.  Ordi- 
nary men  in  cities  become  so  dependent 
upon  human  beings  and  human  thought  that 
when  trouble  comes  they  do  not  know  how 
to  turn  to  the  wonderful  expressions  of  God 
which  speak  to  the  poet  or  to  any  artistic 
temperament." 

I  listened  to  Mr.  Hartwell  with  deep 
respect,  because  I  knew  how  difficult  it  must 
be  for  a  man  of  his  reserved  nature  to  put 
such  thoughts  into  words.  I  knew  he  was 
addressing  one  whom  he  held  dear  to 


1/2      HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

himself,  otherwise  he  would  have  thought 
without  speaking. 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  gently.  "  We  of  the  artistic 
temperament  have  many  joys  and  many 
sorrows  other  people  do  not  know." 

"  Take  a  chap  like  Bradley,"  he  went  on. 
"  He  is  always  expressing  himself,  finding 
form  for  everything  he  feels ;  but  some- 
times I  wonder  if  such  men  feel  as  deeply 
as  I,  who  am  pent  up." 

"No,  I  do  not  believe  they  do  feel  like 
your  kind ;  or  perhaps  their  feeling  is  as 
deep,  but  it  is  not  lasting.  Their  power  of 
expression  relieves  them  and  makes  room 
for  newer  feelings.  I  would  trust  your  kind 
for  strength  and  endurance  more  than  I 
would  the  other." 

"  Is  that  honest  ? "  he  asked,  looking 
down  at  me  with  the  eyes  of  a  man  not 
used  to  being  conquered, —  with  an  unwill- 
ing delight  there. 

"Yes,"  I  replied,  hurriedly;  "but  here 
we  are  at  Miss  Thurlston's." 

"  Wait  a  moment.  Could  I  do  anything 
to  make  you  forget  my  mistake  about  the 
picture  ? " 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES      173 

"  Nothing  but  disprove  the  facts." 
His  face  lengthened,  and  we  walked  up 
the  steps  of  the  apartment  house  together 
without  speaking.  After  church  Mr.  Hart- 
well  went  home  with  me  to  Easter  dinner, 
being  engaged  previously  as  a  guest  at  that 
feast ;  but  he  relapsed  into  a  spiritless  man- 
ner toward  me,  and  after  that  day  I  rarely 
saw  him.  He  was  not  going  out  socially, 
and  after  that  Easter  Day  talk  he  came 
seldom  to  our  house.  Always  once  a  week 
flowers  were  sent  me  without  a  card.  Al- 
though my  instinct  assured  me  of  the 
source  of  this  weekly  offering,  I  could  not 
refuse  to  enjoy  the  flowers  nor  to  be 
secretly  glad  of  the  remembrance. 

We  were  once  more  deep  in  social  labours. 
I  am  nearly  certain  that  Elizabeth  attended, 
on  an  average,  four  chamber  concerts  and 
recitals  weekly,  besides  the  Symphony  Re- 
hearsal. Even  my  absorbing  interest  in 
music  could  not  urge  me  to  such  immoder- 
ate attendance.  What  one  values  one  must 
not  exhaust.  Elizabeth  was  conscientious 
in  her  pleasure  as  well  as  in  her  industry. 
She  laboured  at  piano  practice  long  after  the 


174      HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

spirit  which  achieved  was  fagged,  and  urged 
by  the  same  Puritan  rod  she  religiously 
attended  concerts  for  fear  she  might  fail  in 
her  duty  toward  the  art  she  held  the  highest. 
Musical  fanaticism  is  not  so  prevalent  in 
Boston  as  in  Germany,  but  there  are  indica- 
tions of  individual  tendency  that  way. 

Dorothy  took  me  to  the  only  club  meet- 
ing I  was  ever  known  to  enjoy,  and  the 
reason  for  this  result  lay  in  the  fact  that 
the  Playgoers  was  a  club  only  in  name  and 
membership,  while  in  fact  its  meetings  were 
receptions  at  which  local  celebrities  and 
others  convened  for  the  purpose  of  lionising 
some  distinguished  actor,  author,  or  singer. 

Frances  Thurlston  was  there  that  after- 
noon, accompanied  by  John  Bradley's  sister 
and  her  latest  "  freak,"  of  whom  she  plainly 
was  getting  a  surfeit.  This  Professor 
Langdon  Frances  called  her  peripatetic 
poet. 

There  was  no  certainty  as  to  which 
branch  of  knowledge  he  professed  particu- 
larly ;  certainly  there  were  few  in  which  he 
had  not  lingered  more  ambitiously  than 
famously.  He  had  lectured,  preached, 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES      175 

taught  school,  and  scribbled  over  the  major 
part  of  the  United  States,  judging  from  his 
frequent  and  unreserved  personal  revela- 
tions. If  there  was  a  single  celebrity  he 
had  not  known  intimately,  we  had  never 
heard  of  him  or  her,  and  his  memory  for 
other  people's  thoughts  and  sayings  was 
marvellous  and  tiresome. 

We  are  all  plagiarists,  as  for  that ;  but 
some  of  us  prefer  our  own  feeble  turn  of 
expression  to  unending  quotation  of  more 
heroic  forms.  Professor  Langdon  was 
verging  on  to  fifty.  His  figure  was  the 
best  thing  about  him,  and  would  have  been 
better  clothed  in  garments  large  enough 
to  fit.  His  inevitable  frock  coat  separated 
widely  at  the  usual  meeting  of  the  tails  in 
the  back,  and  even  wider  across  the  chest. 
We  wondered  many  times  if  a  hat  of  the 
right  size  would  have  been  more  expensive 
than  one  many  times  too  small  for  his  long 
auburn  curls.  Between  valuable  quotations, 
of  which  his  conversation  was  composed,  he 
would  pause  for  an  ecstatic  moment,  shut 
his  eyes,  and  raise  his  face  heavenward  for 
inspiration.  There  were  many  indications 


1/6       HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

pointing  to  our  belief  that  he  subsisted 
entirely  on  onions.  Mr.  Bradley  called  him 
Saint  Bermuda,  insisting  that  Frances  was 
fated  to  cultivate  the  fruits  of  his  knowl- 
edge indefinitely,  possibly  maritally. 

If  ever  Frances  hated  one  man  more  than 
most  men,  the  unfortunate  was  Saint  Ber- 
muda, and  the  more  she  hated  the  more 
he  reverenced  her.  He  told  us  once  he 
honoured  strength,  even  when  it  was 
directed  against  himself.  John  Bradley 
merely  looked  at  us,  articulating  with  his 
lips  "  Bermudas  ? "  That  afternoon  he  had 
joined  Frances  and  Miss  Bradley  on  the 
street  and,  with  his  usual  genial  intimacy, 
attached  himself  to  their  party.  Accord- 
ingly, the  first  people  we  saw  at  the  Play- 
goers were  the  Professor  in  an  interval  of 
silent,  closed-eyed  ecstasy  while  talking 
to  Miss  Bradley,  and  John  Bradley,  con- 
doling humourously  near  by  with  Frances, 
who  looked  fierce.  Needless  to  say  the 
Professor  attracted  much  attention.  He 
seemed  to  know  nearly  everybody  in  the 
room,  and  in  a  few  moments  had  got  him- 
self presented  to  the  lion  of  the  occasion, 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES      1 77 

who,  being  a  foreigner,  wrote  afterward,  in 
the  first  chapter  of  his  impressions  of 
America,  that  Bostonians  wore  clothes  too 
small  for  them,  ate  onions,  and  quoted 
poetry  to  excess ;  which  passage  plainly 
evinced  that  Saint  Bermuda's  was  the 
strongest  personality  he  met  in  Boston.  I 
never  saw  a  Mormon  preacher,  but  Pro- 
fessor Langdon  always  reminded  me  of  one. 

From  the  Playgoers  I  left  Dorothy  and 
went  with  Frances  and  her  party  to  an 
Italian  restaurant  for  dinner.  When  Bos- 
tonians break  out  with  a  desire  for  flesh- 
pots,  they  hie  them  to  an  Italian  restaurant 
as  the  straightest  course  to  Egypt ;  whereas, 
a  newborn  babe  is  hardly  more  virtuous 
than  one  of  those  eating-houses,  where 
bad  manners  and  bad  tobacco  are  the  only 
indications  of  bad  morals  to  be  seen. 

Professor  Langdon  insisted  that  after 
dinner  we  must  accompany  him  to  one  of 
the  most  interesting  and  cultured  meetings 
ever  held  in  Boston,  where  we  would  have 
a  chance  to  talk  with  earnest,  spiritual- 
minded  people  at  their  club  called  by  some 
Greek  name,  meaning  the  doorway  or  arch- 


178      HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

way,  if  I  recall  it  correctly.  Mr.  Bradley 
added  his  persuasions  so  gravely  and  per- 
sistently that  I  viewed  him  with  suspicion. 
I  knew  he  scented  "copy"  or  "larks,"  the 
two  objects  of  his  existence.  And  so  we 
went  to  the  club  with  the  Greek  name ;  a 
party,  as  Mr.  Bradley  confided  to  me,  com- 
posed of  several  "  freaks  "  and  himself, — 
representative  Bostonians. 


CHAPTER  VI 

SAINT  BERMUDA'S  promised  gath- 
ering of  exalted  spirits  surpassed  even 
his  own  personality  in  unique  entertain- 
ment. Many  of  Frances  Thurlston's 
coterie  were  present,  but  the  predominat- 
ing element  was  representative  of  the 
Cambridge  Conferences  and  the  Theosoph- 
ical  cult.  At  one  side  of  the  room  stood  a 
young  man  whom  at  first  I  mistook  for 
a  mulatto.  He  was  surrounded  by  women, 
upon  whom  he  cast  rather  weary  glances 
out  of  large,  innocent,  bovine  eyes.  He 
spoke  seldom  ;  whether  from  lack  of  words 
or  opportunity,  one  could  not  say  at  a 
glance. 

"  You  have  not  met  Swami !  "  exclaimed 

Saint    Bermuda.     "  His  is   a  grand    soul. 

He  is  teaching  us,  in   the   words   of   my 

friend,  Hamilton    Mabie,    that    '  Culture's 

179 


l8o      HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

distinctive  characteristic  is  not  extent,  but 
quality  of  knowledge  ;  not  range,  but  vital- 
ity of  knowledge  ;  not  scope  of  activity,  but 
depth  of  life.'  Swami  is  a  grand  soul !  " 

"  But  who  is  Swami  ?  And  why  do  the 
women  swarm  so  ?  "  I  persisted. 

"  Boston  bees  about  a  Hindoo  flower, 
sucking  spiritual  honey,"  interposed  Brad- 
ley. 

"  A  Hindoo  priest,  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Exactly  ;  or  idol,  I  should  say,  to  look 
at  the  worshiping  women,"  he  replied,  with 
serious  disdain. 

"  How  can  they  act  so  over  any  man  ?  " 
sniffed  Frances. 

"  Ah  !  he  is  a  grand  soul,  Miss  Thurls- 
ton,"  replied  Saint  Bermuda.  "Are  you 
not  inspired  in  his  presence,  as  his  follow- 
ers are,  in  the  words  of  our  great  poet, 
Lowell,  to 

" '  Be  noble !  and  the  nobleness  that  lies 
In  other  men,  sleeping,  but  never  dead, 
Will  rise  in  majesty  to  meet  thine  own  '  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say  that  I  am,"  replied  Frances, 
with  scorn.  "He  looks  as  bored  as  the 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES       181 

baby  lion  at  the  Zoo  used  to  when  the 
women  patted  him  and  tried  to  kiss  him." 

"  That  is  but  Swami's  bodily  fatigue," 
exclaimed  a  feminine  Theosophist  standing 
with  us.  "  His  eternal  ego,  his  spiritual 
essence,  grasps  and  holds  the  higher  life 
ever  before  our  more  backward  being. 
Nirvana  stands  as  a  mountain-top  before 
his  gaze.  His  spirit  rises  slowly  toward 
that  eminence  under  transitory  forms 
and  —  " 

"As  my  friend  John  Fiske  says,"  inter- 
rupted Saint  Bermuda,  "  when  God  re- 
vealed himself  to  his  ancient  prophet  he 
came  not  in  the  earthquake  nor  the  tem- 
pest, but  in  a  voice  that  was  still  and 
small  ;  so  that  divine  spark,  the  soul,  as 
it  takes  up  its  abode  in  this  realm  of  fleet- 
ing phenomena,  chooses  — 

"  Oh,  Professor  Langdon,"  broke  in  a 
voice  I  seemed  to  have  heard  before,  "we 
have  not  seen  you  at  our  <  evenings  '  this 
winter !  Are  you  deserting  us,  or  is  liter- 
ary work  taking  all  your  time  ?  " 

A  laugh  followed,  asserting  the  identity 
of  the  speaker.  I  had  met  her  at  the 


1 82      HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

Lesters'.  Turning  to  Mr.  Bradley,  she 
went  on,  "  So  glad  to  have  a  chance  to 
tell  you  how  much  I  enjoyed  your  new 
book.  Having  heard  so  much  talk  and 
criticism  about  it,  I  was  surprised  to  find 
it  so  good.  Americans  have  such  poor  taste 
in  literature.  I  like  everything  you  write." 

"You  are  very  good,"  murmured  John 
Bradley,  trying  to  hide  the  joke  he  saw  on 
himself.  We  escaped,  and  crossed  the 
room  to  meet  Swami.  I  found  him  an 
intelligent  Hindoo,  who  spoke  good,  though 
limited,  English.  He  confessed  that  it 
surprised  him  to  find  such  an  earnest  fol- 
lowing of  his  own  religion  as  came  under 
his  observation  in  a  Christian  community 
like  Boston. 

Presently  there  was  some  very  .bad  vocal 
music  made  by  a  corpulent  lady  wearing 
a  dress  altogether  too  short  in  the  skirt 
for  grace,  and  too  tight  in  the  waist  to 
admit  of  a  proper  exhibition  of  her  method 
of  breathing,  — the  feature  of  vocal  life  in 
Boston  which  really  supplants  the  impor- 
tance of  singing.  Judging  from  the  con- 
versation of  singing  pupils  in  Boston,  one 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES      183 

can  easily  fancy  that  song  is  produced  by 
some  mechanical  contortions  carried  on 
below  the  waist,  regardless  of  beauty  or 
health.  This  singer  was  a  method  con- 
tortionist. People  who  dwell  altogether 
in  either  their  souls  or  brains  have  poor 
taste  in  music,  but  even  they  can  recog- 
nise all  lack  of  sentiment  in  singing,  and, 
accordingly,  no  one  heeded  her  muscular 
efforts.  Everybody  buzzed  obliviously. 

Swami  remained  the  centre  of  feminine 
gravity,  and  there  were  few  men  pres- 
ent to  rival  him  in  spiritual  or  mundane 
attractions. 

As  we  left  the  hall  Mr.  Bradley  said, 
"That  was  Hartwell  who  just  passed  us 
on  the  street.  Did  you  see  him  ?  " 

"  No,"  I  replied,  looking  back  at  the 
vanishing  figure. 

"  He  did  not  recognise  us.  His  sister's 
death  seems  to  be  wearing  on  him.  He 
hardly  looks  himself.  I  hear  he  is  going 
to  England  for  the  summer." 

"  Indeed  !  "  I  said,  as  calmly  as  possible. 
"  I  had  not  heard  that.  When  does  he 
sail  ?  " 


184      HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

"  Next  week,  some  of  the  men  told  me." 

The  day  following  I  asked  Elizabeth  if 
she  had  heard  that  Mr.  Hart  well  was 
going  abroad.  She  looked  at  me  steadily, 
replying  :  "  Warren  has  not  told  me  if  he 
is  going.  He  seems  unhappy  and  lonely. 
Perhaps  the  trip  would  do  him  good." 

"No  doubt  it  would,"  I  replied,  and  we 
said  no  more. 

The  next  afternoon  Elizabeth  and  I 
attended  an  afternoon  tea  at  Copley  Hall, 
given  in  connection  with  an  exhibition  of 
paintings  by  modern  artists.  Warren 
Hartwell  was  there,  standing  before  a 
marine  view  which  evidently  pleased  him. 
He  stood  holding  his  hat  behind  him  with 
both  hands,  oblivious  of  his  many  acquaint- 
ances. 

I  was  determined  to  know  if  he  intended 
to  leave  town  soon  or  not ;  consequently, 
I  moved  gradually  in  his  direction.  If 
Elizabeth  saw  him  she  made  no  sign,  but 
joined  some  friends  as  I  moved  along 
before  the  pictures.  Finally  I  reached  his 
immediate  neighbourhood.  I  tried  to  make 
him  feel  my  presence  without  speaking, 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES      185 

and  succeeded.  He  recovered  himself 
with  a  sudden  side  movement  of  the  head 
and  a  quick  sigh.  "  I  did  not  see  you," 
he  said.  "  When  did  you  come  ?  " 

"  Several  moments  ago.  Have  you 
found  something  good  ? " 

"  Yes.  There  is  the  touch  of  Nature  in 
this  man's  work.  I  wonder  if  any  one 
else  cares  for  the  sea  as  much  as  I  do. 
By  the  way,  Miss  Allston,  to  revert  to 
rather  a  disagreeable  subject,  would  you 
object  to  telling  me  how  your  photograph 
ever  got  into  'The  American  Angler's 
Book,'  a  natural  history  of  sporting  fish  ? 
This  marine  of  the  Gloucester  fishermen 
reminds  me  of  that  strange  coincidence,  my 
own  special  hobby  being  fish  and  fishing." 

"  Not  really  !  "  I  exclaimed,  almost  seiz- 
ing his  arm  in  my  eager  pleasure  at  this 
revelation.  "Do  you  like  deep-sea  fish- 
ing ?  Can  you  fish  all  day  in  a  boat  at  sea 
under  the  broiling  sun,  eating  lunch  out  of 
a  tin  pail,  and  wearing  '  ilers  ? '  Can  you 
do  all  this  and  enjoy  every  minute  of  it  ? 
If  you  can  I  could  almost  forgive  you  —  " 
I  hesitated. 


1 86       HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

"Almost  —  but  not  quite?"  he  asked, 
evidently  controlling  himself. 

"No.  Not  quite,"  I  replied,  moving 
away,  as  I  felt  a  great  heat  of  colour 
come  over  my  face. 

He  stepped  along  beside  me,  replying  in 
another  voice,  "And  about  the  photo- 
graph ? " 

"  Oh,  don't  you  understand  ?  We  have 
the  same  hobby.  Fishing  is  my  mania. 
I  have  every  edition  of  Izaak  Walton  pub- 
lished, and  I  have  a  room  at  home  fitted 
up  with  reels,  and  rods,  and  flies,  and 
trolling  lines,  —  every  kind  of  tackle.  My 
father  declares  I  am  an  evolution  from  a 
fish  or  a  mermaid.  That  day  I  was  look- 
ing up  some  facts  about  game  fish,  and  put 
my  photograph  in  the  book  to  keep  the 
place  while  I  turned  to  speak  to  Miss 
Thurlston  ;  then  forgot,  and  left  it  there." 

"  Strange,  indeed  !  "  he  replied.  "  I 
went  to  Bates  Hall  to  look  at  that  same 
book.  It  would  almost  seem  that  you  are 
flying  in  the  face  of  Providence  to  treat 
me  as  you  do.  Have  you  no  regard  for 
Fate  ?  —  no  superstition  ? " 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES      1 8? 

"  None  whatever,"  I  replied,  stiffly.  "  I 
hear  you  are  going  to  England." 

"  I  have  thought  of  it.  I  shall  probably 
sail  within  a  fortnight." 

Elizabeth  heard  him  say  this,  as  she 
came  up  to  where  we  stood.  She  entered 
into  a  discussion  of  his  plans,  but  he  and 
I  had  no  further  talk  alone. 

Several  times  during  the  next  ten  days 
he  took  Elizabeth  and  me  to  ride  out 
through  the  Fenway  and  along  the  River- 
way.  All  through  Brookline  the  blossom- 
laden  fruit-trees  perfumed  the  air.  The 
world  seemed  steeped  in  rich  verdancy  and 
youth,  —  Nature's  perennial  offering  to 
mankind  from  her  brimming  cup.  When 
man  learns  how  to  accept  the  riches 
Nature  offers  him  he  will  know  the  secrets 
of  life.  Mr.  Hart  well  enjoyed  a  horse 
under  him  as  much  as  I  did.  This  I 
realised  with  a  sigh.  As  he  said,  it  seemed 
almost  ungrateful  to  elude  Fate,  when  she 
had  once  brought  in  contact  two  such 
congenial  natures. 

I  was  worn  out  physically  from  the  con- 
tinuous social  labour  I  had  undergone,  and 


1 88      HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

would  have  been  ready  to  go  home,  had  it 
not  been  for  a  promised  visit  to  Frances 
after  my  relatives  left  town  a  few  days 
later. 

Dorothy  had  already  gone,  but  returned 
to  chaperon  us  at  the  Artists'  Festival, 
one  of  the  unusual,  and  therefore  interest- 
ing, social  events. 

Poor  Dorothy  !  Since  those  days  (not 
so  very  long  ago,  either)  she  has  read  her 
fate  in  weary  numbers.  Underneath  her 
rippling,  fun-seeking  exterior  there  was 
always  enough  of  her  parents'  nature  to 
have  held  her  head  level  had  she  found  a 
worthier  mate.  Her  sense  of  duty  took 
the  form  of  immersion  in  whatever  gave 
her  husband  the  most  pleasure.  She 
spoiled  Fred  exactly  as  she  did  her  pet 
dogs  and  her  babies,  losing  her  own  dignity 
and  most  of  her  influence  in  the  act. 
She  never  knew  until  it  was  too  late 
that  human  hearts  crave  the  unattainable. 
Ever  since  Christmas  the  small  grief- 
wrinkles  had  been  gathering  about  her 
eyes,  hidden  only  too  frequently  by  a 
laugh  that  rang  unmirthfully. 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES      189 

Wrinkles  have  been  a  special  study  of 
mine.  After  years  of  observation,  I  have 
become  sufficiently  astute  to  detect  worry- 
wrinkles  from  grief-wrinkles  at  a  glance. 
I  knew  Dorothy  was  worn  to  tatters, 
physically,  by  the  social  business  of  the 
past  winter,  but  after  I  saw  the  heartache 
in  her  eyes  I  knew,  also,  how  much  hope- 
lessness there  was  in  her  apparent  fatigue. 
Poor  Dorothy !  The  crash  did  not  come 
for  several  months,  but  that  night  at  the 
Artists'  Festival,  where  she  had  few  rivals 
in  beauty  of  feature  and  carnage,  I  caught 
one  glimpse  of  the  truth  when  she  turned 
from  a  gay  chattering  group  and  saw  Fred 
talking  to  a  certain  frisky  debutante  at 
some  distance  from  us.  At  the  moment  I 
thought  her  unjust  to  Fred,  but  in  the 
end  it  proved  otherwise.  Poor,  frivolous 
Dorothy ! 

But  to  return,  —  for  weeks  previous  we 
had  been  running  in  and  out  of  the  Art 
Students'  Association  rooms,  deciding  with 
the  committee  on  arrangements  upon  our 
costumes  for  the  festival.  The  event  was 
to  partake  of  the  character  of  a  historical 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 


pageant,  including  the  festivities  attending 
the  return  of  the  Crusaders,  the  costumes 
being  limited  by  the  committee  to  such  as 
were  worn  in  Europe  between  the  years 
1000  and  1450. 

Dorothy  was  dressed  as  an  early  Renais- 
sance beauty,  her  costume  having  been 
copied,  with  the  aid  of  a  New  York  artist, 
from  an  old  French  print.  Elizabeth 
wore  an  antique  peasant's  costume  she 
had  picked  up  in  Switzerland,  and  its 
quaint,  old-fashioned  modesty  became  her 
rather  severe  style.  Frances  Thurlston 
got  up  my  costume,  and  I  never  before 
saw  her  take  such  keen  interest  in  any- 
thing. She  had  a  chest  of  old  fabrics, 
including  several  large  squares  of  cloth-of- 
gold.  She  unearthed  from  among  her 
possessions  a  portrait  of  a  Florentine  prin- 
cess, and  from  her  fabrics,  with  the  aid  of 
several  artists,  Mr.  Bradley,  and  a  dress- 
maker, we  produced  what  they  all  called 
"a  stunning  effect." 

Many  of  the  costumes  were  more  elab- 
orate than  ours,  but  few  were  more 
picturesque.  The  men  of  the  Tavern 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES      1 93 

Club  went  as  Crusaders,  and  those  of  the 
Architectural  Club  as  archers.  At  half- 
past  nine  the  mediaeval  procession  accom- 
panying the  Crusaders  passed  through 
Copley  Hall,  and  an  exceedingly  gorgeous 
parade  it  was,  impressing  one  anew  with 
the  sombre,  disenchanting  effect  of  modern 
costuming  when  contrasted  in  thought 
with  the  regal  tones  and  strong  harmonies 
of  early-day  attire. 

Copley  Hall  was  transformed  into  an 
immense  mediaeval  tent,  suggestive  of  Ivan- 
hoe,  Richard  the  Lion-hearted,  Rebecca, 
and  Rowena,  whose  prototypes  we  saw 
reproduced  in  the  procession.  The  walls 
of  the  tent  were  covered  on  three  sides 
with  interesting  old  tapestries,  topped  by  a 
frieze  of  shields  emblazoned  with  gold  and 
heraldic  devices.  The  remaining  side  was 
reserved  for  a  raised  dais,  on  which  sat  the 
patronesses  of  the  occasion  royally  attired, 
wearing  in  shining  masses  the  jewels  which 
Boston  women  have  the  good  taste  to  wear 
seldom  and  with  discretion. 

At  one  side  there  was  a  stage  made  to 
resemble  a  bit  of  woodland,  and  beyond, 


194      HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

through  tent-like  draperies,  there  was 
revealed  an  out-door  scene,  where  the 
mediaeval  games  and  pastimes  were  held 
after  a  short  play  had  been  given  by  ama- 
teurs of  our  acquaintance,  without  scenery, 
as  was  the  custom  in  ancient  times.  After 
the  play  the  scarabund,  a  rustic  round,  and 
several  other  quaint  old  dances  were  given 
with  considerable  spirit  and  rustic  abandon. 
This  antique  dancing  continued  until  the 
stroke  of  midnight,  when,,  with  swift  transi- 
tion, the  form  of  dance  changed  to  that  of 
our  own  times,  and  all  the  spectators  joined 
in.  Richard  Cceur  de  Lion  dancing  the 
two-step  was,  I  admit,  "a  terpsichorean 
anachronism,"  as  John  Bradley  said. 

No  one  is  permitted  to  attend  an  Artists' 
Festival  except  those  costumed  according 
to  the  dictates  of  the  occasion,  which  is  at 
every  point  picturesque  and  consistent 
with  a  particular  design,  thus  creating  a 
far  more  interesting  effect  than  that  of 
a  fancy-dress  ball,  where  the  costumes  are 
miscellaneous  and  without  artistic  purpose. 
John  Bradley  was  one  of  the  Crusaders, 
and  his  costume  turned  him  into  a  fasci- 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES      IQ5 

nating,  dashing  warrior-gallant ;  but,  as  I 
looked  at  him,  I  imagined  Warren  Hart- 
well,  with  his  tall,  erect  figure  and  haughty 
features,  arrayed  in  such  a  garb.  He 
would  have  made  the  Coeur  de  Lion  of  the 
evening  look  insignificant.  I  wished  for 
him  —  in  Crusader's  costume. 

As  Mr.  Bradley  took  me  through  Allston 
Hall,  converted  into  a  garden  surrounded 
by  a  lattice  covered  with  roses,  on  our  way 
to  booths  where  refreshments  were  served, 
he  commented  upon  my  costume.  "  Cloth- 
of-gold  suits  you,"  he  said,  rather  solemnly 
for  him.  "  That  is  your  sphere,  my  prin- 
cess, high  up  above  me  ;  but  I  can  look  and 
stretch  out  my  hands." 

"  Are  you  taking  to  quotation  like  our 
friend,  Saint  Bermuda?  "  I  asked,  looking  at 
him  uncertainly. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  quickly,  "and  I  will 
finish  with  Browning  : 

"  l  No  artist  lives  and  loves,  that  longs  not 
Once,  and  only  once,  and  for  one  only. 

So  to  be  the  man,  and  leave  the  artist, 

Gain  the  man's  joy,  miss  the  artist's  sorrow.'  " 


196      HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

"Mr.  Bradley,"  I  replied,  sympathetically, 
"  your  life  is  not,  then,  entirely  made  up  of 
merriment  and  *  copy '  ?  " 

"  You  know  better  than  that,  but  you 
cannot  help  me.  Your  life  is  cast  upon  the 
cloth-of-gold,  mine  is  the  colour  of  printer's 
ink, —  black.  Our  colours  are  certainly  out 
of  harmony."  He  spoke  bitterly.  I  said 
trite  things  in  trying  to  answer  uncon- 
sciously. He  replied,  almost  brusquely : 
"  That  is  over  now.  Every  man  has  his  mo- 
ment of  weakness.  Come,  let  us  guage  the 
horn  of  plenty  at  the  court  of  the  Lion- 
hearted." 

I  do  not  believe  people  know  much  of 
the  real  John  Bradley  ;  but  still  his  moods 
are  melodramatic,  and  his  suffering  more 
poetic  than  cruel. 

At  that  moment  Mrs.  Bobby  Short  swept 
up  to  us  in  an  early  Venetian  costume  of 
great  magnificence  and  beauty.  Her  satel- 
lites followed  close  behind,  and  soon  we 
were  merged  into  their  number.  Together 
we  passed  into  the  viand  booths.  Upon  no 
other  occasion  have  I  ever  seen  Bostonians 
in  numbers  unbend  from  their  hereditary 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES      199 

stiffness  so  universally  and  gracefully. 
They  seemed  to  dramatise  themselves  away 
from  unbending  Puritanism  and  lose  them- 
selves in  the  more  ardent  spirit  of  the  past. 
Undoubtedly,  the  Artists'  Festival  is  un- 
equalled by  any  other  form  of  social  enter- 
tainment I  have  ever  witnessed  in  America, 
in  point  of  beauty,  historical  interest,  and 
actual,  vital  pleasure.  Every  one  taking 
part  feels  himself  for  once  in  his  life  a 
picture,  a  romance,  or  a  poem ;  therefore, 
he  thoroughly  enjoys  himself  in  the  imagi- 
nation, where  the  better  part  of  joy  finds 
source. 

The  festival  closed  the  social  season,  and 
my  relatives  left  town.  I  went  to  Frances 
for  the  promised  visit ;  then  she,  Mr. 
Bradley,  and  I  began  to  make  a  child's  holi- 
day of  the  springtime.  She  bore  with  him 
nobly,  considering  his  sex.  We  sat  on  the 
benches  in  the  Public  Garden,  where  pansies 
and  tulips  had  succeeded  the  earlier  flowers 
in  great,  glowing  masses,  relieved  by  the 
intensely  green  grass  and  trees.  We  loi- 
tered along  Commonwealth  Avenue  on 
"the  sunny  side,"  among  the  dozens  of 


20O      HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

infants  taking  the  air  in  their  carriages,  in 
charge  of  nurses  chattering  a  conglomerate 
language,  made  up  of  French,  Swedish, 
German,  and  English  from  the  Emerald 
Isle.  We  even  took  trips  about  the  lake  in 
the  garden  on  the  swan-boats,  and  longer 
trips  down  the  harbour  to  Hull  and  Nan- 
tasket. 

They  were  showing  me  how  real  Boston 
lives, —  the  great  democracy  from  the  city 
and  suburbs  to  whom  these  open  spaces  of 
air  and  sunlight  mean  health  and  virtue. 
We  climbed  Blue  Hill  in  Milton,  and  were 
rewarded  by  a  glorious  panoramic  stretch 
of  harbour,  hills,  and  suburbs.  Then  we 
canoed  on  the  upper  Charles,  where  the 
reflections  of  its  wooded  banks  and  circui- 
tous loveliness  remind  one  of  the  Thames 
above  Richmond.  This  life  suited  me  bet- 
ter than  the  cloth-of-gold,  but  I  never 
confessed  as  much  to  Mr.  Bradley,  while 
Frances  was  happier  than  I  had  ever  seen 
her  before. 

One  quiet  morning,  when  the  air  was 
heavily  still,  portentous  of  a  thunderstorm, 
I  sat  alone  writing,  Frances  having  gone 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES     2OI 

out.  The  elevator  boy  shouted  up  through 
the  tube  that  Miss  Allston  wished  to  see 
me. 

"  Elizabeth  !  "  I  exclaimed,  mentally,  as  I 
shouted  back  permission  for  her  to  come 
up.  "  What  can  Elizabeth  be  doing  in  town 
this  hot  day  ?  " 

She  came  in  looking  whiter  than  usual 
and  more  set  about  the  mouth, —  the  ex- 
pression which  reminded  one  of  her  mother. 
Almost  without  preface  she  began :  "  I 
have  come  especially  to  see  you,  Margaret. 
Are  we  alone  ? " 

"  Yes.     What  is  the  matter  ? " 

"  Warren  Hartwell  came  down  to  spend 
Sunday  with  us  before  sailing  next  Thurs- 
day. Yesterday  afternoon  he  and  I  went 
out  on  the  rocks  by  the  Ledge, —  do  you 
remember  that  place?"  She  stopped  as 
though  my  recollection  were  of  importance. 

"  Is  he  drowned  ?  "  I  cried,  in  suspense. 

"No,"  she  said,  quickly.  "You  would 
care  a  great  deal  if  he  were,  wouldn't  you  ? " 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  with  relief.  "  I  would 
care  ;  so  would  you  or  any  of  his  friends." 

"Yes,  his  friends  would  care,"  she  re- 


202      HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

plied,  drawing  her  veil  down  from  her 
sailor  hat  over  her  face.  "  Warren  and  I 
have  been  more  like  brother  and  sister  than 
mere  friends  all  our  lives,  and  that  accounts 
for  his  talking  to  me  as  he  did.  He  told 
me  that  he  loved  you  hopelessly,  Margaret, 
but  that  sometimes  he  was  tempted  to  be- 
lieve you  cared  for  him  and  held  back  for 
some  inexplicable  reason.  He  said  he  knew 
you  were  offended  because  he  did  not  return 
your  photograph  the  moment  he  discovered 
its  identity,  but  he  wished  to  know  of  me 
if  I  thought  that  trivial  offence  would 
keep  from  him  a  woman  who  truly  loved 
him  —  " 

"  Did  he  consider  it  honourable  to  show 
my  picture  at  —  ? "  I  broke  in ;  but  she 
interrupted  me. 

"  Wait  a  moment.  He  did  not  show  your 
picture  at  the  club  after  he  knew  whose 
picture  it  was.  I  asked  him  that  question, 
to  his  utter  astonishment.  He  replied  that, 
on  the  evening  after  finding  it,  he  was  talk- 
ing to  Willoughby  Winford  at  the  club 
about  photography,  and,  by  chance,  pro- 
duced the  unknown  photograph,  as  an 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES      2C»3 

excellent  example  of  modern  process,  and 
asked  Mr.  Winford  if  he  knew  the  original. 
That  is  all,  Margaret,  but  out  of  that  grew 
all  the  gossip.  The  first  man  gave  one 
version,  the  second  another,  and  the  latter's 
wife  probably  a  third,  hers  of  the  lurid, 
yellow-journal  type.  You  know  how  such 
stories  gather  mud  as  they  run.  I  could 
never  believe  that  of  Warren  —  I  know  him 
too  well ;  but  you  doubted  him,  and  still  you 
love  him  !  How  could  you,  Margaret  ? " 

She  leaned  against  the  chair,  throwing 
back  her  light  jacket,  as  if  for  air.  My 
cousin  Elizabeth  was  to  me  at  that  moment 
a  heroine. 

I  stretched  out  my  hand  to  her.  She 
held  it  tightly  in  a  clinging  grasp,  while  her 
head  leaned  away  from  me  as  I  said,  rapidly : 
"  Elizabeth,  you  have  done  us  both  the 
greatest  service  a  woman  could  do.  Tell  me 
how  to  show  my  gratitude  ?  I  believe  his 
word,  if  I  did  not  believe  in  him  against 
strong  evidence  —  " 

"  Believe  his  word !  "  she  interrupted. 
"  If  you  did  not,  your  love  would  not  be 
worth  suffering  for  —  I  mean,  his  suffering 


204       HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

for.  There  is  no  man  living  more  honour- 
able than  Warren.  I  don't  see  how  any 
one  could  doubt  him." 

I  bent  over  her  hand,  my  eyes  cast 
down.  I  knew  my  cousin  Elizabeth  to  be 
more  worthy  the  love  of  this  man  than  I 
was,  but  I  must  not  tell  her  so. 

"  He  said  he  would  write,  asking  for  an 
interview  before  he  sails.  He  thought  it 
unlikely  he  could  find  you  alone  here,"  she 
continued,  in  short  breaths,  as  if  the  heat 
oppressed  her,  drawing  away  her  hand  as 
she  spoke. 

"  I  will  write  him  at  once  when  to 
come — " 

"No,  you  must  not,"  she  exclaimed, 
grasping  my  arm  and  looking  at  me  with 
all  of  her  indomitable  will  and  pride  in  her 
face.  "  You  must  never  let  him  know  that 
I  came  to  you.  I  was  afraid  you  might 
refuse  him  the  interview ;  that  is  what  I 
ask  in  return.  Promise  me." 

"  Never  in  all  our  lives,  Elizabeth  ? " 

"  Never  so  long  as  we  all  do  live,"  she 
replied,  solemnly,  grasping  the  back  of  a 
chair. 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES      2O$ 

"  I  promise,  Elizabeth,"  and  I  leaned 
over  and  kissed  her. 

"  I  must  go,"  she  said,  hurriedly,  looking 
at  her  watch,  "or  I  shall  miss  the  noon 
train." 

"  You  are  the  best  woman  I  ever  knew, 
Elizabeth,"  I  began. 

"  Remember  your  promise.  Good-bye," 
she  replied,  and  went  down-stairs. 

As  I  sat  meditating,  too  engrossed  in  the 
thought  of  what  she  had  done  to  realise 
immediately  the  influence  of  her  act  upon 
my  life,  a  special-delivery  letter  came  from 
Warren  Hartwell,  asking  for  a  few  mo- 
ments with  me,  only  long  enough  for  him 
to  make  an  important  explanation. 

He  came  the  following  afternoon,  and  I 
committed  myself  to  life  with  a  Bostonian, 
though  not  without  promise  of  his  reform  in 
several  matters,  particularly  in  the  pronun- 
ciation of  the  word  "idea."  He  admitted 
that  the  "r"  was  as  superfluous  as  his 
many  other  faults,  whereupon  I  assured 
him  he  had  fewer  faults  than  any  other 
Bostonian.  But  he  only  smiled  in  the  pro- 
voking, incredulous  way  he  has. 


2O6      HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

"What  a  good  girl  Elizabeth  is!"  he 
said,  before  leaving  me.  "  We  owe  her 
a  great  deal  for  telling  me  how  matters 
stood  with  you,  Margaret.  Elizabeth  was 
always  a  good  girl,  conscientious  and  clear- 
headed." 

His  tone  was  so  condescending  that  for 
a  moment  I  was  tempted ;  but  I  remem- 
bered her  face,  and  was  true  to  her.  All  I 
said  was  :  "  Neither  one  of  us  is  worthy  of 
Elizabeth  Allston.  She  is  a  heroine." 

"  I  did  not  know  you  cared  so  much  for 
her  as  that,  dear,"  he  said.  "  She  has  cer- 
tainly been  a  good  friend  to  me  all  my  life. 
I  shall  be  glad  to  be  her  cousin,  but  I  know 
a  woman  who  is  at  least  her  equal  in  every 
way." 

Even  though  I  loved  him,  I  pitied  his 
lack  of  insight.  With  a  woman's  inconsist- 
ency I  should  have  been  unhappy  had  lie 
thought  otherwise,  and  was  unhappy  be- 
cause he  thought  as  he  did  —  it  seemed 
unfair  to  Elizabeth. 

When  John  Bradley  congratulated  me  he 
merely  said,  "  I  was  not  wrong  about  the 
cloth-of-gold.  Hartwell  is  a  lucky  man." 


HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES      2O/ 

Frances  grunted  considerably  and  berated 
men  in  general ;  but  I  think  her  real  griev- 
ance lay  in  believing  that  I  was  marrying 
the  wrong  man  for  my  best  happiness. 
She  had  only  seen  the  cloth-of-gold  side  of 
Warren.  I  did  not  agree  with  her.  I  had 
learned  that  the  Bostonian  feels  deeper 
than  other  men,  even  though  he  does  not 
tell  you  so  every  day  ;  also,  that  he  can 
unbend. 

Aunt  Drusilla  merely  exclaimed,  "  The 
idear  !  you  two  ?  "  but  looked  more  than  she 
spoke,  voicing  the  opinion  of  Boston  society 
when  one  of  its  members  forgets  himself 
and  his  connections  enough  to  marry  an 
outsider. 

I  told  Warren  that  if  he  had  contem- 
poraneous connections  I  should  not  be 
certain  of  our  future,  but  I  considered 
myself  equal  to  managing  one  Bostonian. 

"  You  have  shown  that  throughout  our 
acquaintance,"  he  replied.  "  In  fact,  as  far 
as  the  reform  movement  goes,  I  don't  know 
but  you  are  a  pretty  good  Bostonian  al- 
ready." 

And  perhaps  he  was  right.     However,  I 


20 8       HER  BOSTON  EXPERIENCES 

replied,  "  The  spirit  of  reform  is  induced  by 
the  crying  need  of  mankind  ; "  but  he  held 
out  his  arms  and  silenced  me  by  replying, 
"  You  have  come  to  fill  a  crying  need,  an 
empty  home,  Margaret.  Come  and  fill  the 
need  of  my  heart  and  you  can  finish  your 
reform  of  its  owner  as  you  will." 

"  Of  its  owner  ? "  I  asked,  into  his  left 
breast  pocket.  "  That  would  be  I." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  but  your  tongue 
would  be  as  good  a  starting-place  for  re- 
form as  any.  After  that  movement  is  set 
in  motion  there  will  be  small  difficulty  in 
regulating  your  slave,  generally  known  as 
Warren  Hart  well." 

My  slave !  When  the  upright  fall  they 
sink  low.  When  a  Bostonian  unbends  he 
drops  all  the  way  to  his  knees. 

That  was  the  moment  of  my  revenge  — 
and  happiness. 


THE   END. 


'S 


N9  820602 

PS3503 

Bergengren,  A.F.          E675 
Her  Boston  experiences.  H4 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
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